Reconstruct
by littleblackdog
Summary: Rebuilding a broken order; recreating themselves in their new roles. Of politics and duty, death and love. Post-game, spoilers. Fem!Aeducan/Alistair/Zevran, threesome warning. May be read as a stand-alone, or as a companion to "Of Steel & Stone."
1. Chapter 1

_AN: Set post-game, thus spoilers abound. You have been warned._

_Anora is queen. Alistair, Fem!Aeducan, Zevan and the dog are set to rebuild the Ferelden Grey Wardens. The rest of their company has parted ways, at least for a time. _

_Shale and Wynne have already left for Tevinter, looking for a way to return Shale to a mortal body. Leliana has chosen to assist with the Chantry's attempts to reclaim the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Sten has returned to Par Vollen. Oghren has decided to seek out Felsi and perhaps settle down with her. Morrigan is gone, presumably pregnant with Alistair's child._

_This story may fit in to my Of Steel and Stone universe, if you choose to interpret it as such. It can also be read as a stand-alone. Contains Aeducan/Alistair paring, plus Zevran as perhaps more than a friend. _

* * *

"Remind me again why we're not sleeping in cushy beds and having peeled grapes brought to us on silver trays—" Alistair motioned around the campsite, its comfortable familiarity skewed by its reduced size. It was strange, after so long together, to be missing so many companions. "Couldn't we have enjoyed one more night of being 'heroes of Ferelden' or whatever?"

Two pairs of eyes glared at him from across the fire. Zevran poked at the coals with a stick and raised his brow. "Go back, then, if you'd feel safe sleeping anywhere near that palace. I am certain the lady and I can manage on our own."

"Yes, that sounds like a great idea. What good fortune I hit my head so hard fighting that archdemon, otherwise I might have a problem with that suggestion."

"Would you two just stop it." She shifted back out of her squatting position to sit gently on the grass, feeling the muscles in her legs twinge painfully. It had not been a pleasant few days. "Unless you'd rather I leave you both here to torture each other 'til the Stone cracks."

"Apologies, my friend."

Alistair sighed. "I'm sorry, love. We're all feeling rather grumpy, I guess."

They sat in comfortable silence for a time, broken only by the slobbering sounds of a mabari finishing up their supper leftovers. They'd roasted fish that night, caught fresh from the Hafter River, and it had actually been quite palatable. She still wasn't entirely comfortable with eating fish, but she'd gotten use to fresh air and open skies. What was choking down some slimy water beast compared to that?

Finally, Alistair spoke. "You don't really think Anora would try and have us killed, do you? I mean, what for?"

Zevran chuckled darkly. She rolled her neck, considering her answer. "What I think, Alistair," she said, carefully. "Is that Anora is her father's daughter. The only difference is that her machinations got her a crown instead of your blade in her neck. I wouldn't trust Loghain at my back, and I certainly don't trust her."

Alistair's frown was even wrinkling his forehead. "But what could she possibly gain by killing us? The people see us as heroes. They had a parade and everything."

"I think she sees us as a threat." Glancing over at Zevran briefly, she couldn't help but grin a little. "Two skilled assassins, and a highly trained warrior— accomplished enough to cut our way through royal guards before, not to mention all the other foes we've bested over the past year. She doesn't trust us, either."

"Which is rather smart," Zevran added. "She may make a decent queen yet."

"We'll see. Time will tell." Alistair looked even more confused at his companions' exchange.

"Are you two actually talking about killing the queen? The queen we just helped put on the throne? Is that _actually_ what's happening here?"

Zevran shrugged. "Only if necessary, down the line. Politics, after all, are very fluid."

She tried to look less scheming than she felt when she smiled reassuringly at her love. "It's just talk, Alistair. I know politics, and I know deceit. If Anora tries to undermine the Wardens, I will act. We cannot be broken again."

"So you'd kill her."

"If she forced my hand. We must rebuild the order, and we cannot afford to allow future governments to be poisoned against us. There is a difference between political neutrality and political suicide."

"It's all still rather sinister." He stretched his arms above his head with a groan. "But I suppose you're right. Ferelden can't ever be this unprepared again."

This was turning into more of a strategy meeting and less of a quiet evening by the fire, and it was hardly the time for such things. She felt her eyes grow heavier. "The Orlesians are due tomorrow or the next day. We'll return to Denerim to meet them, then all head to Amaranthine." Her eyes strayed over to the tent— her pack was in there, and tucked away inside it were Riordan's files. "I don't relish putting others through the Joining."

Before Alistair could voice his opinion, Zevran spoke up. "What do we know of the Orlesian Wardens' intentions? Do they mean to leave any of their number here permanently? Perhaps attempt to install a new commander?"

"They're welcome to try." She realised, belatedly, that her voice was too flinty. The other Wardens were their allies, after all. Ostensibly. "If they can produce another candidate who's looked an archdemon in the eye, I might even consider it."

She relaxed marginally when both of her companions nodded in firm agreement; with the three of them together, the Orlesians could go pound sand. It would definitely not be a good idea to try and install an Orlesian Warden-Commander in Ferelden within the current political climate.

Exhaustion washed over her. She lay back, pressing one hand over her eyes and revelling in the cool grass against her neck. Her head ached, and she'd been hideously nauseated since she'd plunged her sword into that great blighted dragon's skull. It was a testament to her fatigue that she startled when her shoulder was touched.

"Hush." Zevran had moved closer, and she hadn't even noticed. "Sit up and I will take care of your tension."

She could only imagine Alistair's expression, and blindly reached up to pry the hand off her shoulder. "Zevran—"

"Hush, I said. I offer only as a friend, and your watchful lover should have no objections to such an attempt at reducing your obvious pain. I do have some skills in this area, and I say that without lasciviousness." It was clear most of that had been said for Alistair's benefit, but it rang true. Zevran sounded concerned, and it made her feel a little warmer. So many of her friends had left to pursue their own adventures…

"It's fine," Alistair growled, after a moment of silence. She sat up enough to look at him, but he just shook his head. "Really, it's fine. You look like death warmed over."

"How romantic your lover is," Zevran murmured, using her move as an opportunity to insinuate himself behind her back.

"Just shu—" She wasn't able to finish the thought, powerless to stop the moan escaping her lips when strong thumbs suddenly bit into the knots at the base of her neck. The pain was glorious in the relief it promised.

"You see?" Zevran's voice was still no more than a murmur, and was perhaps too close to her ear. "Much better, no?"

"Mmhmmm." She leaned back, tilting her head to allow more access. Zevran kneaded her muscles firmly, releasing tightness she hadn't even realised she'd been carrying. Sooner than she thought possible, her neck was rubbery and she felt wonderfully boneless. She didn't have the energy to move from what had become almost an embrace, lying in the circle of Zevran's arms.

She felt the body behind her shift and she whimpered, then two more arms slid around her and lifted her away. Zevran's breath shuddered over her throat as she was removed from him. Her eyes opened lazily, and she looked up at Alistair. He had her cradled against his chest like a child, and his face was flushed.

"Thank you for staying with me," she mumbled, only half aware. Then she flopped her head around and looked down at where Zevran still sat. "I love you both so much."

Later, once she was rested and less distracted by politics and intrigue, she would remember saying that. At first, she would regret it— she and Zevran had come to an understanding about their friendship, and Alistair certainly wouldn't have appreciated her sharing such a sentiment with a man he still viewed as his rival for her affections. But, she'd then realise, neither of them had brought up her declaration afterwards. There hadn't been any excess tension, any fighting between them— quite the opposite, in fact.

Over the next few months, her lover and her dear friend seemed to come to a sort of arrangement. The bickering petered off, and something of a balance was reached. She felt quite content, there in their new fortress, commanding their small but promising group of Warden recruits.

Then, late one winter evening, Alistair rose to answer a knock on the door to their private chambers. She was sitting in one of their armchairs, legs curled under herself, reading training reports by the light of the fireplace. When Alistair stepped back and Zevran slipped inside, she looked up with some surprise.

Alistair was blushing, she could see that, and then Zevran was smiling at her. Not smirking, but really smiling in a way she knew he rarely allowed himself.

Then everything changed.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello Zev." She set the reports aside. "Everything all right?"

He laughed, warmly enough that she could feel the joy in it. "Everything is wonderful, my dear friend."

Alistair's cheeks and neck had flushed a darker shade than she'd managed to draw out of him in months. Her handsome templar was becoming harder to make blush as time went on, and she thought that might be a good thing. It was at least a challenge.

He was sweating as well, she could see in the firelight. She narrowed her eyes at them both, but levelled her questions at Alistair. He was much more likely to break under her scrutiny. "What's going on? What have you done? Is the fortress burning down?"

As she'd expected from his obvious awkwardness, he ducked his head and stammered out something only half-sensible. "Nothing's wrong, it's just…well, um. Hmm. I just had a thought, is all, and… Oh Maker, I can't do this."

He turned away, facing the opposite wall, and hid his face partially behind one hand. His other hand was rubbing the back of his neck rather desperately.

She shifted her attention to her handsome assassin, and noticed that his smile had dimmed somewhat. He had _that_ look just straining the corners of his eyes— he was suddenly expecting disappointment and no small amount of pain. It was the look of a boy who'd had more beatings than affection as a child.

She uncurled her legs and stood, moving towards them carefully. When she was close enough, she reached out and touched the back of Zevran's hand. She hated _that_ look. With her other hand, she touched Alistair's elbow; he shuddered, but didn't turn back around.

"I must know what's wrong," she said, quietly. "You two are scaring me."

Zevran's long fingers found her wrist and circled it briefly before withdrawing. He crossed his arms, and she watched as his previous joy retreated inward. "It's nothing of importance. We will talk in the morning." He glanced at Alistair, and his mouth twitched downward. "For now, I will bid you both good evening."

"Don't you dare." She rarely ordered them about anymore, so that was perhaps why her "fearless leader" tone was so effective. Zevran didn't budge. "We will talk now. Alistair, turn around please."

Slowly, Alistair did. One hand was still covering his mouth and most of his left cheek, and his eyes were wide. She noticed that he sent Zevran a desperately apologetic look.

"Tell me," she murmured, abandoning the sternness but not the demand. Tenderly, she reached out and placed one hand on each of their chests. Something was bothering her dearest loves, and she needed to know. She needed to fix it, whatever it was.

Zevran inhaled deeply, looking away. Alistair squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then squared his shoulders and met her gaze. What she saw in his expression confused her even as it made heat flare deep in her belly.

"I invited Zevran here," he said, finally, and his voice was rough. "I thought—we thought, we might—" Before suffering a repeat performance of a moment ago, Zevran cut in smoothly.

"We thought, if you are of a mind sweet lady, that I might join you both tonight."

She couldn't have heard that correctly. That wasn't possibly what they meant. Was this happening?

"Are you serious?" They couldn't be serious. If this was a joke, she was going to _torture_ them. If it wasn't a joke…well. "It's not even my birthday."

There was a moment of stunned silence, then Alistair broke into choked almost-giggles and pointed vaguely at Zevran. "That's what he said."

This could not be happening. She realised her hands were still pressed against their chests when Zevran's fingers closed over hers. He was smiling again, and there were equal parts affection and hunger in his gaze. This was really happening.

"Oh." Hesitantly, she stepped closer to them. "Well." Then she looked sharply at Alistair. "This was _your_ idea?"

Alistair swallowed visibly. "Um."

"Oh, hardly." Zevran licked his lips. "I have been dreaming of this for over a year. Dear Alistair merely brought it from… aspiration to reality. If you agree, of course."

Reality. This was really, really happening. Really.

"Yes." She heard herself blurt, and could hardly believe she'd been able to speak at all. Her whole body was humming like a bowstring just released. "Please."

"Marvellous," Zevran said, and Alistair whimpered softly. "This will be _marvellous_."

It was like fire when Zevran's hand trailed up to her shoulder, then slid too slowly down her ribs. He plucked gently at the hem of her tunic. When he leaned down, closing the distance between them, she gasped. His fingers were on her bare skin, slipping around to the small of her back and lifting her jaw. His breath was sweet on her face.

He was so close to her that if she closed her eyes, she would still feel the ghost of his lips against hers. Then he stopped, eyes shifting to glance up at a silent Alistair. Whatever he saw in the other man seemed to please him; she watched the corner of his mouth curl into a delighted smirk. The hand on her back drew her forward and up, and suddenly she was being thoroughly kissed.

Zevran was very good at this. His surprisingly strong arm around her back kept her lifted onto her toes, and the shift of balance made her cling to him. His lips were soft and skilled, and when she felt his tongue sweep gently against her mouth just as his hand strayed from her jaw and carded into her hair, she moaned.

Then he was ravishing her, holding her tight against his body and plundering her mouth. She was lost in the feel of him, the heat and the taste of him, but she couldn't forget Alistair.

Beloved Alistair, darling Alistair— she wrenched her mouth away from Zevran, shuddering when the elf smoothly turned his attention to kissing her throat. She was half-afraid at what she might see in Alistair's expression, and she would put a stop to this immediately if her love was at all uncomfortable.

Alistair was gaping, his mouth hanging open just slightly, and his fists were tightly clenched at his sides. There was something flickering in his eyes, though, that made lightening flash through her.

"Alistair—" She beckoned him closer. "Here, please."

She wasn't sure why she'd expected him to be hesitant once they started this, like he had been at the beginning of their first night together. She supposed he still seemed so innocent most of the time, but since they'd become lovers she'd seen him at his most sensual and most unleashed. It shouldn't have shocked her as much as it did when he pounced.

Zevran was still holding her, but now another arm snaked under her shirt. Oh, Alistair was _bold_— she squirmed when one broad, calloused hand stroked up her stomach and cupped her breast. Then she was being kissed again, and it wasn't so obviously skilled but it was sweet and familiar and full of fire.

She was burning down to her core, and drawing on her own boldness she used the leverage afforded by the simultaneous embraces of two rather strapping men to lift herself completely off her feet, wrapping her legs around Zevran's waist. He was slim, and she could almost cross her ankles.

His hand in her hair slid down her spine and gripped her bottom, and she ground her hips against him. He made a pleased, growling sound and bit her collarbone, just above where Alistair's fingers were caressing her breast.

"Bed," she gasped some time later, when she finally had the presence of mind to come up for air. "Now, or we'll never make it."

Zevran glanced up from where he had begun pulling her neckline down, peppering wet kisses along the curves of her bosom. He chuckled affectionately. "You underestimate my control, lover."

Remembering something he had mentioned long months before, during one of their relatively harmless flirtations when she and Alistair had still been circling each other, she leaned in and ran her tongue along the edge of Zevran's ear, nipping lightly at the pointed tip.

It was her turn to chuckle when he cursed and jerked his hips sharply. "You overestimate mine, darling. _Bed_."

"Too many clothes at this party," Alistair announced unexpectedly, but with definite purpose in his tone. She saw him glance at Zevran, which was all the warning she got before the pair of them pulled her tunic up over her head.

"Oh my…" Zevran purred, and began to nuzzle against the thin material of her exposed smallclothes as they moved as one, away from the door and towards the bed. Under normal circumstances she usually objected to being carried about, but this was a unique situation.

Zevran mouthed one of her peaked nipples through the cloth and she arched her back with a sharp cry. She watched as Alistair yanked his own shirt off, then flipped their coverlet back with some measure of desperation. She was quite interested in the significant bulge tenting the front of his new woollen trousers— it was nearly as distracting as the hard, hot shaft pressed tight against her pelvis.

After a bit more shuffling about, she was placed reverently on the sheets, although from Zevran's darkening eyes and heaving chest it might have been a close thing that she was not simply tossed down and leapt upon.

She leaned back on her elbow and smiled at them both, then reached around and unlaced her brassiere. She tossed the scrap of cloth at the elf, and he caught it easily. "You're both overdressed. Especially you, Zev."

"So I see." Zevran's shirt was silk with geometric embroidery along its seams— a style he preferred, she had discovered, now that they had the opportunity to forego their armour for simple clothing more often. Of course, its design hardly mattered as it was summarily tossed to the floor, followed neatly by Zevran's trousers. He wasn't wearing smallclothes.

"Oh, you wicked man." She bit her lip and turned to Alistair, who was just staring at her a little glassy-eyed. "My love?"

"Yep." He shook his head, then seemed to notice the naked Zevran standing close to him. He cleared his throat. "Yep. Got it." His trousers and smallclothes came off quicker than she'd expected, given the way his hands were trembling, but she thought she might have heard something rip in the process.

She slid back a bit on the mattress, allowing herself to enjoy a magnificent view. Then she motioned to her own leggings. "A little assistance, gentlemen, would be appreciated."

"Minx," Zevran growled, then he was crawling up to meet her with a fluid grace she truly admired. Perhaps more so now that she would be on the receiving end of all his… graces.

Zevran's fingers ran teasingly along the waist of her leggings just as his mouth returned to her breast, now lips on bare skin. Alistair was close behind, sliding his hand up her leg before starting to pull at her laces. She was too focused on the bliss of Zevran's teeth grazing across one nipple while he pinched and rolled the other— when Alistair's hand slipped down under her clothes and between her legs and he rubbed _just like that_, she tensed up without warning.

Everything pulsed, and pleasure crashed through her like the waves that beat the rocks of their coastland home. There were so many hands on her, so much warmth and sweetness, and she cried out loudly, desperately, when the edges of her vision went blurry with the joy of it.

She was panting heavily when the feelings began to recede, twitching and writhing when the hands didn't stop. She felt her leggings being pulled away, and then there was hot breath on her neck and on her thigh.

"You are a blessed wonder," she heard Alistair murmur against her ear, and she tilted her head to catch his mouth in a kiss. She was interrupted, however, by the feel of a tongue against her belly, just below her navel, then deliciously lower still. She was still so sensitive from the recent surprise, and she didn't even try to hide her quivering as Zevran began his work in earnest.

She gasped against Alistair's chin, grasping at his shoulders, and felt Zevran's hands move to hold her hips still. Alistair leaned down and began kissing and biting at her throat and chest, and had she been more aware she would have noticed the way his breathing hitched at every small, mewling sound she made.

Finally, cruelly, Zevran relented and slithered up her thrumming body. He touched Alistair's shoulder, drawing him away from his current and well-received worship of her breasts, and another look passed between the men. She felt something spark in her brain.

"You two have a _plan_ for this," she said, tone somewhat accusatory and very surprised. "You talked about this, and actually made a _plan_. You utterly nefarious bastards."

Zevran shrugged slightly. "There are certain… tactics required in attempting something like this, my dear. For everyone's comfort and pleasure."

She frowned. "Am I not allowed to know the plan?"

Alistair thumbed one of her aching nipples, smiling too sweetly. "It's a secret plan. I promise you'll like it, though." Somehow, unimaginably, the idea of a secret plan and Alistair's obvious elation about it made her core pulse even hotter. She scraped her blunt nails down his chest.

"All right." She sat up slightly, moving close to Zevran's smirking face. "Show me what you've come up with, then."

Zevran laughed, then kissed her hard. She realised, perhaps too late, that if this hadn't been a contest between her delightful men before, she'd certainly just incited some feelings of competition. Now, however, it might be her against them.

Hands skimming along her waist pulled her up a little farther, then Alistair was kneeling behind her, pushing her hair away and kissing the back of her neck. Zevran drew her closer still, encouraging her to straddle his thigh, and soon enough she was sandwiched rather firmly between them. She almost sobbed when they started rocking together, slowly at first but then quicker and with more intent.

She felt so small, so ensconced in bare flesh and warmth and pleasure, a most of all she felt so loved. Zevran might have an aversion to saying it, and she was certain it didn't mean quite the same to him as it did to Alistair, but she knew he loved her unreservedly. He had shed blood with her, for her, and he had stayed when he could have so easily left. She moaned, deep in her throat, and drew him in for another deep kiss.

"Zev," Alistair panted suddenly, and she could feel his sweat mingling with hers against her back. "If we're doing this, it's got to be soon."

Zevran continued to nibble her lip for a moment before replying. She shivered at his abruptly fervent expression. "Agreed."

"What are we doing?" She didn't get a verbal answer, but she did get hands sliding under her bottom, lifting her out of her snug cradle. She whined, rather pathetically, then sucked in a startled breath when familiar fingers touched between her legs with a practiced ease, sliding smoothly inside. Alistair was reaching around, working her, while Zevran got himself comfortable lying back against the pillows.

"Oh," she gasped, and when Zevran reached out and pulled her on top of him, she said it again. "Oh—"

"Yes, my beautiful lover—" Zevran's eyes fluttered closed when she sunk down on him, and when Alistair moved away she braced herself on the smooth, bronze chest laid out before her.

Zevran's hands were tight on her hips, holding her still while he breathed slowly through his nose. After a moment she wriggled, teasingly, and his eyes finally snapped open again. There was _danger_ in them.

"Let us test your finesse, my lover." He rolled his hips slowly, and she felt it jolt down to her toes. Then he smiled at something over her shoulder.

Alistair was there again, kneeling just next to them, and when he straightened his thighs a bit more, raising himself up on his knees, she understood. This would have been more difficult has she been taller, but she was Dwarva, and this was almost perfect.

Shooting Zevran a sultry grin, she reached out and drew Alistair closer. She kept one hand balanced on Zevran's belly, and with the other she held Alistair steady. Then she looked up at his loving, blushing face and licked.

Soon her hips were rocking hard against Zevran's while he thrust up to meet her every move. Alistair was cursing, leaning one tense arm against the headboard as she worked him with her mouth. His back was hunched and his hair was dark with sweat.

She felt her own peak approaching, quickly, and flicked her wrist in a move she knew would push Alistair just that little bit farther. As she'd expected, he cursed again as his whole body went rigid, and after another few moments she was free to focus solely on her own pleasure. Alistair had collapsed on the bed beside them.

Zevran was murmuring something, his hips snapping hard and fast, and she was fairly certain most of it was in Antivan. The muscles in her thighs were burning, but she was _so close_, and then Zevran's fingers were touching where they joined together and she was _lost_.

Before the last lingering sparks had even stopped flashing through her, Zevran turned, laying her down between himself and Alistair. She was completely spent, bone and muscle all turned to sand, and everything felt too heavy to move. With great effort she managed to roll onto her back, reaching out to stroke the line of Alistair's jaw. He was smiling sleepily, and he nuzzled her palm.

Zevran's hand on her belly made her turn back to him, but he was apparently content to behave at least for a little while. His touch was gentle, with only the barest hint of sexual promise. She watched him silently for a time, enjoying the feelings of bliss radiating from his warm, tawny eyes.

Then Alistair started to snore (quietly at first, as was his way), and Zevran seemed to come of out his trance. She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. "Get the blankets, please. I'm cold."

It was true, but she hoped it was also a clear request for him to stay. He seemed to understand both intents, if his triumphant little smirk was anything to go by. Reaching down to pull the blankets over them all, he then returned his hand to her belly and snuggled closer against her shoulder.

The fire had burnt down somewhat, although they wouldn't have to add more wood for a little while yet. The flickering light gave Zevran's hair a rich, burnished sheen, and she brushed a few strands from his forehead with a lingering caress.

Mindful of Alistair sleeping on her other side, she kept her voice to a low murmur. "Tell me," she said, feeling the beginnings of sleep creeping up on her. "How did you manage to talk him into this?"

"Oh you darling woman, I did very little talking at all." Zevran kissed her fingers where they rested on his face. "It was Alistair who crowded me into a quiet corner of the library not two nights ago and kissed _me_. Of course, then he ran like a frightened hare, but it was something." She was completely stunned, but then Zevran continued. "Don't believe his innocent little templar routine for a moment, my sweet. Behind the façade lurks a debauched sex fiend— even _I_ was ensnared by his clever ruse."

She snorted with laughter, and Alistair grumbled, pressing his face into the crook of her neck. "He _kissed_ you? The dirty cheat." Then she narrowed her eyes slightly. "I didn't notice any… affection between you during our recent activities."

Zevran's smirk grew so wide she could clearly see his rather sharp eyeteeth. "You've only experienced _Plan A,_ dearest one. I specifically requested the opportunity to get to know you better this first time." Despite her exhaustion, something eager stirred deep in her. "Alistair and I have managed to put together enough ideas for at least two other plans, and we would welcome your input in further discussions."

"Oh. Oh my."

"Is that approval in your tone, my exquisite mistress? Perhaps… anticipation?" She ran her hand down his neck, then back up to gently stroke his ear. He hummed appreciatively.

"It is, my handsome lover. Very much so."

* * *

_AN: There you go— the smut I'd never intended to actually write when I started this story. Now, perhaps, it might continue as serious piece. Or a series of sexy plans brought to fruition. Or both. I've really no idea yet._


	3. Chapter 3

It was strange how little their lives changed after that night.

In public, at least— having Zevran share their bed most nights was rather a significant private change. But during the day? There was barely a hiccup in their routine.

They'd almost always met briefly, either in the library or her study, before heading in for breakfast with the recruits, so walking in to the great hall together every morning was hardly shocking. Zevran had always been irrepressible, so if his hand lingered on her shoulder slightly more often, or he pulled her chair out with a gentlemanly flourish, neither the recruits nor the staff even batted an eye.

It was actually a little embarrassing what they could get away with— had she really been allowing similar behaviours to be observed before, and not realised it? No wonder some of the more rampant whispers within their Amaranthine fortress (and throughout the court in Denerim, she knew) were about the Lieutenant Commander cuckold, the lecherous Antivan bed-boy, and the sly Warden Commander who so brazenly kept them both.

The recruits learned better than to propagate such slander, but it was more difficult to control the flapping tongues of the fortress' staff. Now that such things actually had a grain of truth… well, she worried about dissension.

They had started with five recruits, out of the thirty or so volunteers who'd approached them in the weeks following the battle for Denerim. Then, after a couple of months and a letter or two to their allies in Redcliff and Orzammar, they'd managed to find four more.

She'd been bred to command troops, but there was something different about leading potential Grey Wardens. It was challenging, testing these young men and women every day, training them, teaching them, eating and conversing with them, all the while knowing that some of them would not survive the Joining. The Joining she had kept secret from them, and would continue to keep secret, until she passed them each a chalice filled with black, stinking blood.

Ser Jory, for all his whinging, had been right. It was not a pleasant thing, knowingly forcing these young men and women to face a foe they could not fight with blades or fists. It did not sit well in her gut, to deliberately poison them with a taint that would slowly eat them away, as it would also take her and Alistair.

Sitting across the dining table from them now, watching them chat amiably with one another over plates of breakfast, she was struck suddenly by the awfulness of what she must soon do. Her expression did not falter for more than a moment, but of course Zevran noticed.

She and Alistair had told Zevran of the Joining, in great detail. He might not be an actual Grey Warden, but if that frigid lot in Weisshaupt had a problem with the way she commanded, they could drag their arses out of their mountains and rap her knuckles themselves. Keeping Zevran in the dark about the realities of Warden rituals would be ridiculously reckless, especially those rites steeped in danger and importance in equal measures.

She saw Zevran's look of concern, but shook her head sharply before he could act. At least one or two of the recruits had noticed the silent exchange, and she realised she'd have to say something quickly to redirect any unwanted attention. Luckily, she had an announcement anyway. She looked up and cleared her throat purposefully; the chatter ceased.

"Recruits," she began, careful not to let her voice reveal that anything was out of sorts. "I hope you all slept well last night. Today we'll be continuing with advanced weapons training, but Alistair and Zevran will not be leading the lesson." Slowly, she allowed her mouth to curl into a dangerous smirk. "I find myself with a lull in my paperwork, and a yearning to swing my blades."

Alistair snorted, skewering another sausage with his fork. "Oh, I think you'd be better off using the training weapons, Commander. Wouldn't want to maim anyone too severely."

Zevran lounged back against the arm of his chair, obviously keen to play along. "And we should probably set out some ground rules first. No poisons, for example. No crippling them permanently, no rending of limbs…" He rubbed his chin as if considering something. "How is our supply of poultices and salves? I think we have plenty of bandages, but we should probably make sure."

The recruits had started chuckling nervously, unsure how serious the banter was meant to be taken. None of them had ever faced the Commander in combat, but a few of them had seen her sparring with Lieutenant Commander Alistair. One young elven man from Denerim, named Rimon, had even spun a tale about walking in on a duel between her and Instructor Zevran— apparently, the pair of them moved so quickly that it was impossible to watch without getting dizzy. The Warden Commander herself knew of the tale, and also knew the scoffing Rimon had suffered when he'd told it to the others.

She'd been too busy trying to secure the Grey Wardens' presence in Ferelden politics over the past few months. She hadn't been nearly as devoted to her most important duty as she should have been— actually making sure her recruits had the skills to defeat darkspawn. The recruits knew about the battle for Denerim, had heard the stories about their Commander and how she'd struck the final blow against the archdemon, but stories could only go so far. She'd let the dust settle on her blades in favour of wielding her pen.

She pushed her plate away and glanced at her recruits, making special note of those who looked overeager or overconfident. "Fine. Take all the fun out of it."

Alistair sighed, somewhat indulgently, and then put on his serious face. "All right then. Finish up your food, then assemble in the sparring room. You've got a half hour."

She, Alistair and Zevran moved almost simultaneously, pushing out their chairs and standing. The sound of wooden legs scraping against stone echoed and a few of the recruits had already started scrambling, but the three of them paid no more attention, turning and walking out of the dining hall together. When they were safely out in the corridor, Zevran touched her jaw. She shied away.

"What troubles you?" His voice was quiet, but still she motioned for the pair of them to follow her back towards their private wing. She walked quickly and spoke rather curtly.

"I've gotten word back from the Circle, and they've finally collected everything needed for their section of the Joining. We've just got to make the trip to Orzammar, and we'll be ready."

"Ah," said Zevran, just as Alistair said "Oh."

"How succinct. Thank you both." She led them into her study, closing the door behind them. Alistair was frowning deeply, while Zevran looked utterly unreadable. She went over and unlocked the doors to her weapons cabinet, pulling out a pair of curved daggers. "I appreciate the unpleasantness of this whole thing, but it is necessary."

Zevran's brows shot up towards his hairline and he leaned his hip against the edge of her desk. "You _appreciate _the_ unpleasantness? _That is truly what you're going to stand there and tell _us_?"

She slammed the daggers down on top of a pile of forms and letters, finally allowing the tightness in her voice to give way to real anger. "I _hate_ that we must do this." She noticed that Alistair was decidedly not looking at her, and for a brief moment she fiercely resented him. "I've got to march those _children_ blindly into a room and force them to drink poison, and if one of them falters, in one of them is afraid, I've got to execute him. How can I do that? How can I justify doing that, after we've suffered so much death?"

"As you said," Alistair murmured, still speaking to the wall rather than her. "It is necessary. We are Grey Wardens, and sacrifices are demanded of us."

Zevran, obviously feeling much more forgiving than she currently was, reached out and laid his hand on Alistair's arm. His expression was concerned, but still distant. "How many can we expect to lose from this ritual?"

It was a question she had considered for months, pouring through records of past Joinings and trying to find some pattern in all the death. For all her efforts, she'd found nothing but more questions and a lingering feeling of hopelessness. She sighed deeply. "One or two? Half? Perhaps all, if we're especially unlucky. It's happened before."

"Someone always dies." Alistair shrugged the comforting hand off his elbow. "Come on. We can't be late for our own lesson."

"I'm giving them a final warning." She squared her shoulders, prepared for Alistair's first look at her to be a disbelieving stare. "Before the Joining. I'm giving them a chance to leave."

"You're _what_—" She watched warily as he took a breath and schooled his features into something less shocked. "That's not how it's done, my love. You know that."

With more force than necessary, she shoved her daggers into the sheaths on her back. "We've already had to postpone the Joining for months anyway, and they've learned no secrets here— they know as much about darkspawn and the Wardens as every person in Ferelden should, but no more. I'm giving them a chance to leave, today, and if you want to lodge a complaint with Weisshaupt, feel free." Even as she said the words, she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. "I'm sorry, that was unfair."

"No. No, you're right. I'm being stupid." Alistair sagged, abandoning any semblance of the cool resolve he'd been striving for. "We're on our own here, and the decisions are yours to make."

"Ours, Alistair. _Ours_ to make. We're in this together, the three of us."

"Enough." Zevran slashed his hand through the air sharply. "We will have time to speak of these things later. For now, it is time for a pack of brash youths to be summarily thrashed."

She managed a wiry smile. "Agreed." She came around the desk, allowing the promise of combat to banish at least some of her melancholy— she squealed when Zevran's arm snaked around her waist and he yanked her into a bruising kiss.

"For luck," he purred against her mouth, then in a blink he was pulling Alistair in by his collar for a similar plundering. His grin was toothy. "My lovely Wardens."

Knowing they were nearly late already, she risked sliding her hand down Zevran's chest, tugging gently on the belt cinched low across his hips. "After sparring, I think the three of us are going to have a meeting. Just a… quick word while the recruits lick their wounds."

Zevran laughed, and the tension of moments before had mostly bled out of them. "Oh you tease, you. Come, Alistair— let us watch our lady _exert_ herself."

The recruits were waiting anxiously when they arrived, and sparring room hummed with the quiet sounds of armour clanking and shifting about. No one spoke as the three of them entered, and she maintained her silence as she observed the huddle of young men and women before her.

She unbuckled her baldric and set her blades aside carefully, placing them on the long narrow table pushed up against the front wall. Then she turned to her recruits. "Before we begin, I must remind you all of something." She crossed her arms loosely. "Each of you is here because I believe you have the potential to become a remarkable warrior— it is not merely legend that the Grey Wardens are warriors without equal. If I doubted your abilities, you would not stand before me now.

"This is not an exercise designed to make you doubt yourselves. I am here to show you what you can become— what you _must_ become, if you join our order. Anything less than excellence will lead to your death, and the deaths of countless others at the end of a darkspawn blade. Now, ready yourselves."

She glanced back at where Alistair and Zevran were reclining against the wall and jerked her chin at them. "Get me two daggers and a pair of swords from the lockers. Steel, preferably."

"Of course." Zevran flitted away, while Alistair remained. He looked rather excited, though he was trying valiantly to hide it.

She smirked. "Have you adequately prepared your charges, Lieutenant Commander?"

Pushing off from the wall, Alistair strode over to stand beside her. He eyed the recruits questioningly, then nodded at them. "Yes, Warden Commander."

Zevran appeared again, weapons in hand. He placed them next to her own blades.

She stretched her arms high above her head, then rolled her shoulders. "Good. Any volunteers?" There was some quiet muttering, then one tall, broad shouldered young man stepped forward. Eddard, second son of a lesser bann, and fierce with greatsword. She'd recruited him at Alistair's recommendation, after the lad had sat outside the Amaranthine gates for two days in a raging tempest, refusing to be turned away. She liked Eddard; he was brave without being brazen, and he had a dry sense of humour. He almost reminded her of a slightly smaller, much more human version of Sten.

She nodded approvingly, then motioned to the table. "All right, Eddard. Choose two blades for me. Daggers, swords, or my own Thorns."

The tow-haired giant of a man shifted back and forth on his feet, looking stoic. "A sword and a dagger, Commander?"

"Very well." She picked up the blades, swinging the sword around twice to loosen her wrist, then moved into position. "Everyone else to the edges of the room. All these blades are sharp." Waiting until everyone had moved to a safer distance, she shot Eddard a kind smile. "You're stone-hard to go first, Ed. Now, draw your sword."

The greatsword made almost no sound as he pulled it from his scabbard— the lad kept his weapon well cared for, then. She stepped sideways, slowly, and watched as he moved with equal care. The circled each other for a moment, then Eddard's weight shifted and he swung. She ducked the blade and slipped around to flank him, taking the opportunity to ram her shoulder hard against his unguarded rear. He stumbled, but regained his feet quicker than she'd thought he would.

Eddard favoured heavier chain mail, but he was strong enough that it barely hampered his movement. Still, he was no finesse-fighter, nor was he battle-hardened, and within three more failed attacks she had him unarmed and flat on his back, his sword having clattered away when her foot connected with his wrist. Her own sword was hovering a near his neck, but not too close. This was a training exercise, after all.

"Yield?" she questioned, but she got her answer when Eddard pushed her blade aside and tried to knock her legs out from under her. She evaded the move smoothly, then stomped on one of his elbows and kicked him in the face. Not hard, really, but enough to bloody his nose. He clutched his face with his free hand and the fight drained out of him in bright red rivulets.

"I yield," he gurgled, trying to sit up and spit out some blood. She allowed it, then reached out to help him to his feet as much as she could. He took her proffered hand and climbed to his feet, and even hunched in defeat he still towered over her. She stretched up and clapped him on the back, high as she could reach.

"Very well done, Ed. You're tenacious, and your form is quite good."

"Thank you, Commander." He carefully removed his hand from his face, and a small trail of blood trickled down his already smeared lip. He looked a bit embarrassed, but he was smiling. "You're very fast."

"Years of practice, Ed. There's some water and rags over there, if you'd like to clean up." He nodded and retrieved his sword, then loped over to the bucket and pitcher that waited beside the line of recruits. She spun her sword again. "Who's next?"

A sturdy form pushed its way through the others, grinning grimly. Remya had been a small-time thief prowling the streets of Orzammar, and the dark brand on her cheek was marred by a thick white scar that also pulled the corner of her eye. She'd been in a brawl with a half-dozen guards in the Commons when the Warden Commander had spotted her, and her skill with twin daggers had been impressive for someone so young. She'd also been destined for a prison cell.

Eager to leave Dust Town and the stigma of her casteless birth behind, there'd still been a simmering resentment in her attitude— despite finding an answer to her prayers in Warden recruitment. It had taken months for her bitter feelings about serving under the command of an exile, a former Aeducan princess, and an actual Paragon to soften into something more respectful, yet still fiery. During her training, after trying out a few options from their armoury, she'd also discarded one dagger in favour of a short-handled war axe.

"My turn, Commander." Remya ran her tongue along her rather crooked teeth. "Meet my axe with two daggers."

"Of course." She placed her sword on the table and took up the other dagger. "Try not to fight too dirty, eh?"

Remya snorted derisively, weapons already drawn and ready. "Says the nasty blighter who kicks in the face. I'll promise no biting, but that's it."

"Fair enough. Let's go then." This fight lasted a little longer, but not by much. Remya was quicker than Eddard, but still not quick enough, and she didn't have the discipline mastered. When none of her blows seemed to connect with anything but empty air, she lost her cool and got sloppy. Soon enough she was on her stomach with a knee in her back. She thrashed, but quieted when cold steel touched the base of her skull.

"You win," she growled, face mashed against the floor. "Just let me up."

"Good." Getting to her feet, she hauled the beaten woman up by one shoulder. "Keep that temper in check and you'll be a bloody terror, Remya. The Ancestors favour your axe."

Remya was flushed and panting a bit, obviously disgruntled at losing, but at those words she ducked her head slightly. "Uh, thanks Commander." Then she shuffled back in line without another word.

"All right, I'm warmed up." Setting both daggers on the table, she picked up the pair of swords and pointed one at the remaining recruits. "Leofric and Carran, come forward. Let's make this two-on-one."

The two human men glanced at each other, then stepped up. Both usually wielded a sword and a dagger, but Leofric's style was one of strength (and he occasionally swapped the dagger for a light shield), while Carran was cunning and lightening quick. Eamon had sent Leofric to them, one of his younger knights, and Carran had been a farmer's son from the lakeside village who'd made a name for himself during the fight against the undead.

She nodded at the pair of them, and Leofric bowed. Carran was sweating already. "Work together, lads, and I could be in trouble here. The swords will slow me down. Come on."

Six blades whirling about was quite a sight, and the din of steel meeting steel was thunderous. Eventually, Leofric lost his dagger when she swung around and parried his attempt to stab near her kidneys. Her blade nicked his hand, but he barely blinked. Then she whipped back around to Carran, who'd tried to take advantage of her distraction. She kicked his knees out from under him as his deflected thrust whizzed by her ear, and smashed the pommel of one sword against his temple; he went down in a pile.

Leofric's elbow bashed into her shoulder, but she rolled with the blow and he stumbled. He tripped over Carran's stunned body, falling with his sword arm twisted under him. The blade was well out of the way, but the impact still looked painful.

"Yield!" Leofric yelped, while Carran grunted something insensible, blinking owlishly and rubbing his head. That had been a welcome challenge after so long behind her desk, and she took some deep breaths. She congratulated the pair of them on their skills, but reminded them about the importance of working with your allies.

"Shields next, Commander!" Alistair called out, and she noticed that both he and Zevran were observing her carefully. There was a banked heat in their gazes that she prayed none of the recruits had noticed. "Rimon, or Keliani."

"Someone fetch me a cup of fresh water and I might face being buffeted about by them both." Eddard, face clean and nose swollen, brought her the water pitcher and a filled cup. She drained the cup, thanked him, then took a moment to scrutinize the remaining recruits.

Five left untested: Rimon and Keliani, both elves from the Denerim alienage and both surprisingly well trained warriors; Soren, a young warrior caste dwarf who was deadly with his massive axe; and Ambrose and Amery, humans and twin brothers from one of the smaller villages in the Bannorn, who seemed to fight more like one person than two.

She drank another mouthful of water, then waved Eddard off. "What say you, recruits? How would the rest of you like to face me? And don't say all together— I'm not quite that foolish."

There was muttering within the group, but just as she'd suspected would occur, the twins stepped forward together. She shook her head, but couldn't fault them their strategy. "All right then. What of you three? Together or apart?"

Soren looked a little insulted. "You would willingly face three opponents at once, Commander?"

"There are two lessons in this, Soren: Wardens must learn to fight effectively alongside others, and often against disagreeable odds. I don't exactly relish the thought of facing three warriors of your calibre, and I'd attempt to avoid such a situation in actual combat, but I've no objection if that's what you choose."

"Let's see it then! Cuff that copper-plated skull off his shoulders, Commander!" That was Remya, sitting against the wall and picking at her fingernails. She'd been recruited the same day as Soren, and the warrior had not been especially keen to travel with a brand. Even after the lack of rank and caste within the Wardens had been explained to him, quite firmly, the pair hadn't exactly warmed up to each other.

Soren's eyes had gone flinty. This could easily turn sour, and that was hardly the point of the exercise. She raised her voice. "Enough. Ambrose, Amery, draw your weapons. You're first. The rest of you _quiet_."

Once again, she found herself facing four blades with her two swords. Ambrose, distinguishable from his brother by the pockmark scars on his left cheek, favoured a longsword and dagger combination, while Amery wielded two matching daggers, and was also quite adept with a bow given the opportunity.

She kept her attention focused on Amery, allowing Ambrose to circle around her left side. Without warning, Amery darted forward, blades flashing around her like a flurry. She dodged his strikes, but his intent was clear. He was trying to push her towards his brother. She dropped to the ground and rolled, just evading the dual weapon sweep that sliced towards her back. Now she had both brothers in her sight again, and she was determined not to let them flank her.

She used the length of her swords to her advantage, keeping Amery and his daggers at a distance. When Ambrose suddenly bore down on her, forcing her to parry his aggressive blows, she called upon every bit of fancy footwork she possessed to keep Amery from coming up on her side. Suddenly it was like the men were standing still, and with a quick duck and a sprint, she was poised at the other end of the room. Zevran was the only one who'd followed her movements, and the others took a moment of dazed glancing about to find her again.

"Andraste's _arse_," she heard Amery mutter, but now she had her back to the wall. She grinned at them.

"Come get me, lads." It was over fairly quickly, after that. During the melee Ambrose managed to get in a decent blow on her ribs, but her well-loved leathers and a twist of her own sword deflected the deadly force of the hit. Squeezing one pommel tight, she punched Amery in the stomach as hard as she could and he buckled over, wheezing. Then she dropped to all fours and swung her leg out, dropping a startled Ambrose on his rear. She came out of her squat smoothly, holding a sword point to each of their throats.

"We yield," they both gasped in unison, and Zevran punctuated the victory with a smattering of applause. She ignored him, helping Ambrose back to his feet.

"You're something special, gentlemen," she said, quietly. Her ribs actually still ached. "I am duly impressed."

"Thank you ma'am," Ambrose replied shakily, and Amery nodded, still a little winded. As the brothers helped each other shamble back to the others, she walked back to the table and dropped her swords. She placed her hand reverently on the hilt of one of her Thorns.

"Is it to be three-on-one for the last bout, recruits?"

"Yes Commander," Rimon answered, and she was proud that his voice didn't break. He was such a softhearted man by nature, but she'd seen him routinely pummel his fellows with his sword and large steel shield during their combat drills. She picked up her own daggers, sliding them free of their sheaths with practiced ease. Polished silverite and dragonbone reflected her own face as she turned.

"These are my Thorns." She held them up for scrutiny, letting her hands readjust to the feel of them in her palms. "I rarely carry them together— I usually prefer the reach of a sword— but using these shorter blades allow me a certain freedom of movement. If I'm to face you three at once, would you allow me to use my own weapons?"

"Of course." Soren answered for all of them, without sparing a glance for his allies. He sounded gruff, and very much like he thought he had something to prove. She felt the soles of her feet start to itch, prepared for a tough fight. Rimon and Keliani were frowning at Soren's back, and she made a decision— both in the interest of fairness and to teach a valuable lesson. She held her Thorns by her side, keeping her posture relaxed.

She watched Soren heft his axe as if he were the only one on the floor, oblivious to his skilled compatriots. She cocked her head at him. "What are you waiting for?"

As she'd expected from heady combination of his normal aggressive style and his current state of mind, Soren let out a mighty war cry and charged. The other two had the good sense to stay where they were, shields at the ready.

She didn't appear to move, but Soren's axe swung through empty air. Then, silently and smoothly, she grasped the axe handle and kicked him square between the legs. His mail softened the impact somewhat, but he still dropped to his knees with a pained gasp. His grip on his axe went slack, and she slid it across the floor, far out of his reach. Then she kneed him in the jaw, hard enough to knock him out cold.

Stepping smoothly around the unconscious body, she was immediately faced with two seemingly impenetrable walls. She tried to circle them, but they kept their shields steady and nearly locked together, side by side. This left her with only one possible flanking angle for each of them, and a wide swath in the middle where she could be easily overwhelmed.

Throughout this exercise, she'd tried to keep herself serious and encouraging. She'd tried to be a proper commander— engendering respect from her recruits, teaching them valuable truths about their own skills, and helping them bond with each other as well. She'd tried, and succeeded thus far, not to let her exhilaration about the combat shine through too much.

She let herself smile a little too broadly, fighting the urge to just grin like a fool. This was _fun_.

"She's injured on her left side," Keliani murmured to her partner, never taking her sharp grey eyes off her commander.

That same commander was stepping lightly and carefully in a wide circle, observing the barrier before her with obvious interest. If she could avoid being pummelled by a shield today, she would really prefer it.

"Indulge me, Rimon," she said conversationally, still circling them. "What do you plan to do with that rather important bit of information from your ally? You are the one closer to your foe's left side after all. Oh, and well done Keliani."

"Thank you, Commander," Keliani said, but Rimon remained silent. She decided to test his awareness, sensing it might be a bit shuttered by his determination.

Springing off the balls of her feet with great momentum, she darted forward into the range of their weapons. She faked right, towards Keliani, then ducked low and to the left. She was behind Rimon before he'd made more than a jerking step towards where she'd been a heartbeat before. She tapped his splintmail with the flat of one dagger, making sure he felt the impact.

"Hit," she called loudly, then retreated to a safer distance. "Now that you're bleeding from the back, Rimon, care to answer my question?"

She watched as a quick, decisive looked passed between the elves. This might just get interesting. Rimon licked his lips. "May I show you instead, Commander?"

"Oh, of course. Let me have it." The shield wall split, and the pair of them were suddenly circling _her_, abandoning their safer defensive stance for a more offensive move. Now she had shields bearing down on her from two sides.

They were quick, she'd definitely grant them that— by the time she managed to make her final move, she'd only managed one more significant hit (what probably would have been enough to incapacitate or kill in an actual battle), and a few smaller touches. The recruits had managed to keep her on her guard the entire time, and her lip was bleeding where the edge of Rimon's shield had just caught her jaw when she'd been distracted by parrying Keliani's sword.

She dodged a widely swung blow from Keliani, then feigned a stumble from landing her foot incorrectly. As she'd hoped, Rimon took the opportunity to lash out with his shield to her left side. She dropped flat as if she'd been felled, avoiding the blow, and Rimon's shield clanged against the edge of Keliani's with a thunderous crash. The angle was such that Keliani's arm twisted considerably, very possibly dislocating her elbow.

Using the confusion and close quarters her last tactic had produced, she lashed out and held her daggers against the backs of the warriors' knees, one each.

"Stop!" she yelled, and both elves froze. "You're crippled. I just cut your tendons out, and you collapsed on top of each other. Then I slit your throats."

"Yes Commander," Rimon panted, sweat running down his brow. Keliani dropped her shield, holding her injured arm tightly to her chest.

Zevran was behind her, pulling her to her feet before she had a chance to get up on her own. He was grinning proudly. She shrugged him off, not unkindly, and focused her attention on Keliani.

"Are you hurt?" The young elf flexed her fingers experimentally, grimacing.

"Yes ma'am. I think my elbow's gone out of joint."

She felt Alistair step up behind her, flanking her left shoulder while Zevran stood at her right. He jerked his thumb, indicating Rimon should go join the other recruits, then moved in to examine Keliani's arm.

Soren groaned, obviously starting to come around, and Zevran sauntered over to check on him. After making sure the injuries were not terribly serious, Amery and Ambrose volunteered to help the other two down to the infirmary. They kept a rather adept healer on hand, although the man could hardly hold a candle to Wynne. No one, in her experience, was quite so special as those companions she'd managed to do the impossible with.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and passed her Thorns to Zevran. He took them with a subtle wink, and she was keenly reminded of their upcoming… meeting.

Turning to face her remaining recruits, she hoped the colour in her cheeks would be attributed to her recent exertions, rather than thoughts of her future ones. She rested her fists on her hips.

"That was impressive work, all of you. Now go and clean up before lunch. The day is yours until an hour before supper, when I want to see you all assembled in the dining hall. I've got some important things to announce. Dismissed."

Alistair was putting the training weapons away as the recruits filed out, and when the door closed behind the last to leave, Zevran's fingers were on her. It was nothing apparently untoward— he simply lifted her chin to get a better look at the cut on her lip.

"Did you find your exercise pleasurable, my lover?" He brushed his thumb across her mouth on the word pleasurable, and she felt the sting resonate down deep in her core.

"Mm, very much so." Still very aware of where they were, she slipped out of his reach. She retrieved her Thorns from the table where Zevran had placed them and slid them into their sheaths. After a moment's consideration she decided to carry her baldric rather than buckle it back on and, if she was completely honest with herself, the decision was made purely for the ease of getting out of her armour. Armour she hoped to be out of quite soon.

"That was rather magnificent, darling." Alistair' expression was hungry as he leaned against the doorframe. "Wait, don't we have a meeting scheduled?"

"If you're up to it, of course." Zevran was standing too close to her again, given that they were still inside the unlocked training room, but not nearly so close as she wanted. "I have a suspicion that this particular meeting may become a little… heated, and I would not want you to strain yourself unduly."

"I think I'll risk it." She allowed her hand to brush feather-light against Zevran's, glancing up at him through her lashes. He smirked rather saucily.

"Let us be off then— the closer lunch approaches, the more I worry about Alistair's wandering concentration."

"He_-ey_." Alistair opened the door, allowing the other two to precede him out into the corridor. "That only happened once, and the circumstances were extenuating."

Zevran snorted, shoving Alistair's shoulder playfully. "Your bizarre obsession with cheeses can be rather bruising to the ego, in such circumstances."

"Hush, you two." There were voices farther up the hallway, coming from the direction they were headed. For a moment, she was worried it might be some of the recruits come to ask questions, but she chided herself for having such a selfish thought. Her duty was of course to her charges first, before her own desires.

The worry was rendered moot, however, when they met a pair of maids just around the corner. The chatter stopped instantly when the women caught sight of who was walking towards them, but the dark-haired one giggled when Zevran glided past. He, of course, glanced back at the young thing lasciviously— the women both giggled this time, then scurried away.

When it was clear they were out of earshot, Zevran sighed. "Ah, poor girls. It's a pity really."

They'd just reached their private wing, which housed two spacious bedrooms, her study, and a cosy den that Alistair and Zevran called their "manly space." With a quick glance at her companions, she walked over and pulled open the door of the larger bedroom. When they'd all stepped inside, she locked it behind them.

She set her baldric on the nearby dressing table; her skin felt electrified. "What's a pity, Zev?"

There were hands on her waist, curling around her and beginning to unbuckle her amour with some haste. Zevran nuzzled her neck. "Oh, had I noticed such sweet beauties a few short weeks ago they would have known such pleasure. Alas, now I find myself with few tender caresses to spare. I am only one man, after all, even if exceptionally virile."

It was a very sweet sentiment, especially considering the source, and she leaned back a bit to kiss his temple. Then her armour was peeled away, leaving her in a thin, sweaty tunic. She shivered when a tongue laved a broad swipe just under the back of her collar.

"You taste of exhilaration," Zevran purred, mouth never leaving her skin. Then Alistair was joining in, tugging her gloves off and lifting her wrist to brush it with soft kisses. She groaned when he nibbled the base of her thumb, and grasped his chin to pull his face down to her.

She needed to kiss someone, desperately, and Zevran was still pressed up against her back, his hands finding their way up under her tunic. As he squeezed her breasts, then started rolling and pinching her pebbling nipples through her smallclothes, she was very content to leave him where he was.

Alistair was stroking her hip, tugging her closer as he explored her mouth, but then one of Zevran's hands disappeared and a moment later Alistair broke away to moan desperately against her cheek. A quick glance down showed her exactly where that errant hand had gotten to, and she smiled as she pressed wet kisses along Alistair's jaw.

The men were both bent down around her, leaning in to compensate for her height, and she knew that could get uncomfortable. A quick change of position could easily remedy the situation, and she reached back to caress Zevran's ear, capturing his attention. Alistair looked a little too preoccupied.

Before she could mention that perhaps they should move this meeting to the bed, or the floor, or the wall if they were feeling particularly athletic, Zevran spoke.

"All this talk of lunch—" He tugged her nipple, and she moaned softly. "It gives me a rather delicious notion. Indulge me?"

She turned her head enough that she could look him in the eye. Then she said something dangerous, something she knew could easily and possibly literally come back to bite her in the arse. Her voice was soft, and serious. "Of course, Zev. Always."

He held her gaze for a moment, obviously a bit shocked his teasing had led to that kind of assurance. Then he smiled his real smile and kissed her lightly, sweetly, on the lips.

"Magnificent woman," he murmured, and his tone made something warm curl in her chest.

Then Alistair's hips jerked hard against her, gasping. "Oh Maker, Zev—"

She was reminded sharply of the matter… at hand. She licked Zevran's bottom lip. "What's your notion, lover?" He said something in Antivan (she was beginning to recognise the sound of the language, even if she understood her marbari more easily), but then explained as he began walking them back towards the bed.

"I feel greedy, _mi amora_." That phrase she understood. He'd never say it in the common tongue, and she wasn't sure he knew she understood it, but it made her shiver all the same. "Ravenous, even. I want some of this—" She thought she felt the hand he had on Alistair move sharply, and the almost pained whimper from her templar confirmed it. "And also, some of this." Suddenly there were fingers pressing hard between her legs, making her pulse even through her leggings.

She ached for that touch, arching against it, but then without warning she was tumbled rather unceremoniously onto the waiting mattress. Even Alistair seemed shocked at her sudden departure from their mutual embrace. Zevran just licked his lips.

She sighed rather indulgently and pulled her tunic off. "So, Plan D again, is it?"

Zevran bowed his head slightly. "If you two are in agreement, yes."

Alistair was already fumbling with the light armour he'd worn that day, yanking at buckles and tossing the mail aside. He'd gotten his ability to speak back now that Zevran's hands were otherwise occupied, answering with a rather promising chuckle. "You've got my vote, Zev."

She didn't voice her answer, but instead made a show of shimmying out of her leggings and smallclothes in one smooth movement. At the feel of two pairs of eyes raking across her body, her core pulsed again. She stretched languidly on the coverlet and made a small, needy sound.

"Alistair," Zevran growled, shucking his own leathers with unrivalled speed. "Be a gentleman and see to the lady while I prepare."

Needing no further encouragement, Alistair tossed the last of his clothes aside and descended upon her. She clutched at his broad shoulders as he leaned down to kiss her, thoroughly and with unrestrained passion— she couldn't help arching when as his hand slipped down between her legs. He knew her body so well, exactly how and where to touch, and she relished the sheer sweetness in every caress. He touched her reverently, like she was the most precious jewel, and he never tried to conceal his wonder at being able to do so. She gripped his neck and pulled herself tighter against him, losing herself in the feel of his warmth.

She barely noticed Zevran rooting about the jars of oils and creams that had somehow migrated from his bedroom to theirs, but there was a small part of her mind still cognisant enough to thrill at the sound of strained moans and delicate glass clinking together. Zevran was watching them as he prepared himself, of that she had no doubt.

She was teetering close to the edge when Alistair's mouth, now laving her breast as his fingers worked slowly insider her, curled into a smirk. She felt Zevran pepper kisses across her hands and Alistair's shoulders, but she was nearly _there_, and if—

Alistair twisted his hand, flicking his thumb perfectly, and sparks exploded behind her eyes. She cried out, hips bucking sharply, and couldn't stop the throaty, desperate sounds that those fingers continued to draw out of her.

"Good man," she heard Zevran murmur, and just as the lingering quivers began to recede she felt more hands come down upon her. Together, the pair of them lifted her rather boneless body around to rest on her knees, her face cradled gently by her own arms and a pillow one of them had pulled over. Alistair's hand retreated, and she whimpered at the loss of it, but then she felt another warmth settle against her back, pressing up tight against her.

Zevran's breath was hot against her ear, and as one of his sinewy arms wrapped around her hips, she heard him whisper something soft and sibilate. Then he was deep inside her, smoothly, and the haze lifted from her mind. She felt the weight on the mattress shift, and then Zevran groaned roughly.

They stayed just like that for a moment, breathing together. She could hear both men panting, but the peace could only last so long. With a wicked grin hidden in her own elbow, she tightened her muscles, revelling in Zevran's surprised hiss. She rocked back against the sudden movement she'd elicited, but they needed to establish a rhythm if this was to work properly.

Trust Zevran to take care of that— with a few quick instructions for Alistair, they were soon moving as one. Her fingers curled tightly into the pillow as they shifted and groaned and sweated, working a little faster and then faster still. Zevran was kissing and biting the back of her neck, then he swore fiercely when Alistair's hips started snapping desperately, pushing them all that little bit harder.

If she turned her head, she could see the tension in Alistair's forearm, braced against the mattress. She heard him sucking in great lungfuls of air, and she rolled her own hips sharply.

"Sweet Maker—" Alistair gasped, and Zevran answered with a low growl. The bed was creaking beneath them.

The world was narrowing again, and she allowed herself to focus solely on her own pleasure, on the hot pressure throbbing inside her and the electricity thrumming along her skin. As if he could sense it, and he likely could, Zevran's hand slid down from where it had been resting flat against her belly, holding her up. His questing fingers were like lightening, and she crested again, sobbing noiselessly as the feelings rushed through her.

"Mercy—" Zevran gasped, pounding into her rippling body with a frantic need. She was wasn't entirely sure she hadn't floated out of her body and returned to the Stone, and she stayed in that blissful, oblivious state until sometime later, when they were all collapsed beside each other in a sticky heap.

Eventually, about the same time the muscles in her thighs had stopped twitching, Zevran chuckled exhaustedly. "Combat is good for you, lover. Good for all of us."

"Mmmm," Alistair hummed in agreement from somewhere over Zevran's shoulder, sounding dazed. She gathered her strength and rolled over, pressing a gentle kiss above Zevran's heart.

"I was _exhilarated_," she purred, trying to sound vaguely Antivan. Zevran laughed, hugging her close.

"Indeed, my beauty. As were we."

"_Exhilarated_," Alistair repeated with a ridiculous drawl, and Zevran leaned back for a sloppy kiss. Then he bit Alistair's chin.

"I don't sound like that, you spiteful wretches."

She tucked her head against his shoulder, grinning. "Of course not, Zev." Her fingers stole up to dance across his tanned ribs, and he twitched. Rather surprisingly, they'd discovered recently that the elf was extremely ticklish when he allowed himself to be. She did it again and he gasped.

"Oh _no_ you don't—" But it was too late; Alistair had already joined in. There was squealing and shrieking and somehow they managed not to fall off the bed in a pile, but it was a close thing. Then, too soon, it was time to get back to reality.

She was splayed out across Alistair's chest, with Zevran refusing to cuddle her anymore unless she'd stop the blasted tickling. He was holding her hand, though, under the pretext of examining her fingernails. He and Alistair were lying shoulder to shoulder, not quite dozing off, and she was enjoying the lazy patterns Alistair was drawing on her back.

In due course she stretched, trying to rouse herself a bit. "We ought to clean up and get back."

Zevran kissed her knuckles. "Oh, I thought of that." Without any further explanation, he slipped off the bed and sauntered slowly over to the doorway. Completely unconcerned about anyone who might be in the corridor, he opened the door, naked and still rather messy, and bent down to retrieve something sitting on the floor just outside. He pushed the door closed with his hip, then turned back to the bed with a sly grin, holding a water pitcher— she thought she might see steam rising fainting from it, too— and a pile of washcloths.

Alistair groaned at the sight of it, pulling himself across the mattress. "Oh, you beautiful, beautiful man."

"These things you say, my friend." Setting the pitcher on the dressing table, Zevran dipped one washcloth into the water and began wiping his own face and neck. She rolled off Alistair, who was still squirming vainly towards the water while showing no signs of actually attempting to get up.

She sat up and shot Zevran a slightly annoyed look, but he simply shrugged innocently and swiped the washcloth over his belly. "So, what servant did you cajole into bringing that? Whose tongue's going to be flapping now, you impossible pervert?"

It was a bit of a sore point, keeping their relationship discrete. She had no illusions of being able to actually keep it secret, nor any burning desire to, but discretion was probably their best option until the Wardens were better established among the human nobility. A royal bastard, a dwarven exile, and an elven assassin, all knocking boots together on a regular basis? That would make for some fine gossip— it already did, truth be told.

She wasn't ashamed of Zevran, but she was uncertain he truly believed that. He said he understood politics and diplomacy, but she still sensed the vague hurt in him when she shrugged his hand from her shoulder, or stepped away to a more respectable distance.

Watching him now, with the memory of his touch still vivid on her skin, her sense of duty felt skewed. He thought enough to take care of them— he loved them, both of them, in his own way. Feeling a little unsteady on her feet, she climbed out of bed and shuffled over to him, avoiding Alistair's attempt to grab her.

"Zev—" Her hand darted out, and she wrapped her fingers around Zevran's strong wrist. He allowed her to guide the washcloth over his navel, and briefly lower. She kept her eyes on his face, however, and when he noticed her expression he stopped leering. "Can we be serious for a minute?"

"I'm always serious when your wicked hands are upon me." As flippant as that may have sounded, there was truth in it. Zevran was serious about her, and about Alistair. He was serious about _them_.

"Listen to me." She stepped closer, letting her other hand skate up his chest. She heard the bed squeak, and thought Alistair might finally be on his feet. "It's important that you understand something."

Alistair's hands were on her bare shoulders, broad and calloused, and somehow that made this easier. Zevran, for all his airs, looked slightly uneasy—that probably meant he was terrified of what she might say. She stretched up on the tips of her toes and pressed a light kiss in the very centre of his bronze chest.

"I love you," she said, earnestly. It was something she remembered telling him only once before, when she'd been too exhausted to think better of it. Zevran either didn't or couldn't hide the confusion from flashing over his face. "You are one of the greatest joys in my life. You're my partner, in all of this, just like Alistair."

"You are," Alistair added, and now Zevran's expression was nearly inscrutable. "You're very important to us. We're friends Zev, the best of friends I think, and I do… love you."

Zevran's mouth worked silently, as if he were testing out what he might say. Then he shook his head in complete exasperation. "I've no idea how to respond to that. You two—"

She cut in smoothly, not willing to entertain all the dark, doubt-filled places that Zevran's mind would likely try and take him. "We're _yours_, Zev. For as long as you'd like. Just try not to grope me too much in front of the recruits, and we'll be fine."

"You can grope me, though." Alistar reached out and tweaked Zevran's ear, making the elf huff out a surprised breath. "Maybe make a couple of their heads explode. Especially Leofric, the poor lad."

"I—" Zevran's took hold of Alistair's hand, staring at it like it was something completely foreign. Then he looked down at her. "How do you know such a thing?"

How would one explain something like that to an utterly astonishing man who'd just happened to have a particularly difficult life? She bit her lip, considering. "You just do, I think. It's confusing and frightening, but then you realise that you love this other person, and suddenly it's worth it. Because they're worth it." She glanced up at Alistair, and felt warmed by the softness of his expression. Yes, entirely worth it.

For a long moment, there was uncertainty whether Zevran would stay or flee. Then with a dour look, he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I suppose." He mumbled something in Antivan and she strained to catch the sounds of it, but then he sighed deeply and repeated it clearer and slower, as if he were just learning the words himself. "_Mis queridos… Si, mis queridos. _My… beloved ones."

She didn't dare comment for fear of startling him like a nervous deer, but she did favour him with her broadest, sweetest smile. He chuckled, then bent down and kissed her forehead. "You do know I'm going to be impossible now, yes?"

The fingers she still had wound around his wrist suddenly strayed, brushing against all manner of interesting things before retreating just as quickly. "I think I can handle you, beloved, as much as you can actually _be_ handled." His face lit up at that innuendo, but she continued without missing a beat. "Now though, we must clean up and get back to work."

They did, with water that was still on the hot side of warm, and they managed not to make another mess even if they didn't quite keep their washcloths to themselves the entire time. It took more time than it could have, but eventually she was tugging her armour straight over her chest, and they were walking out into the corridor together. For the first time in their Amaranthine fortress, in the middle of the afternoon and without a hidden corner or locked door in sight, she didn't duck away from Zevran's arm. She leaned against him when his hand stroked along her shoulders, then started giggling foolishly when Alistair turned it into a gentle tug-of-war.

They would have to be serious soon enough— serious, deadly, and as cold as the sodding Anderfels. She would hold onto her joy for as long as she could.

Their private meeting hadn't been quite so brief as she'd thought, and the golden quality of the sunlight streaming in through the fortress windows made her aware that her gathering with the recruits was swiftly approaching.

She freed herself from the clutches of her playful oafs, putting on her Warden Commander face. "It's nearly time. I'm going to wait in the dining hall."

Alistair's face twisted into a worried frown, and he crossed his arms. "So you're doing this, then? Warning them?"

"I'm giving them a chance to leave. I'm not telling them anything else, except that this is their last chance to walk away." She let her mask crack, ruining the stern facade she'd so recently put up. "It's all I can do, but I've got to do _something_. I want them to understand how serious this is. Do you agree?"

"Completely," Zevran replied without hesitation, and Alistair nodded.

"Yes, I do actually. In other lands, where there are more of us, I think the people understand the depth of sacrifice a little better. Our recruits come in blind."

She felt a ball of tension relax deep in her chest. "Good. Let's go."

They sat at their long table, chatting quietly, and eventually recruits began to filter in. Eddard and Leofric first, entering separately but almost simultaneously. Then Rimon, Keliani, the twins, and Remya bustled in together— from the look on the others' faces, and Remya's animated gestures, she was regaling them with something enthralling and probably utterly filthy. Keliani's arm was tied in a sling, but it didn't appear splinted.

Soren slunk in a few moments later, glowering like an angry bronto. There was a definite bruise forming under the tawny shadow of his beard. Finally Carran scurried in from the corridor, dropping into the closest empty chair with a dark flush.

She stared at each of them, carefully, searching their expressions for anything that would make a single moment of what was to come any easier. She sought out the barest flicker of weakness, of doubt, and found very little. Not enough to send any of them home outright.

She braced both hands on the table, leaning forward. "You're all early, but we can begin. As I said this morning, you are all skilled, and you each have a quality I believe will benefit the Wardens greatly. Now, however, I want to talk to you about what comes next."

Bodies shifted, anxious at hearing her grim tenor. She pressed on. "Being a Grey Warden means you are elite. It means you are exceptional. But Wardens only become what we are through terrible sacrifice. What has been asked of you thus far is nothing compared to what will be asked of you, should you choose to continue here.

"Do not doubt what I say. You have spent months among us, learning abilities that could be invaluable in many different lives. You've begun to learn discipline, superior weapons tactics, and how to work within a group. These are vital skills.

"I am giving you a chance, now, to take those skills and walk away. Make good lives for yourselves, help those around you, and be happy." She saw the levels of shock on all their faces, ranging from confused to angry to contemplative. She stabbed down at the tabletop with one stiff finger, setting her jaw. "If you are not ready to give up every part of yourselves to join our order, leave tonight. If you would not willingly and enthusiastically face death every single day for the rest of your lives, pack your things and be gone by morning. I would not blame you for doing so, and I would defy anyone else to criticise such a prudent decision.

"Hear me now, you fine young men and women. After tonight, all that waits for you here is death. After tonight, there is no turning back. These things I promise." She sat up straight, looking cold and feeling colder as she intoned: "In war, victory."

Alistair's voice was a low rumble beside her. "In peace, vigilance."

Then together, with complete conviction: "In death, sacrifice."

* * *

_AN: Well, it's become a real story now, damn you. Plot and smut, which might become my chapter recipe for this. Thank you all for your encouraging comments thus far!_

_While I was writing the combat, I had a lot of fun considering what would happen if one's character post-game could challenge a pre-Ostagar or even pre-Lothering version of themselves to a fight. The sheer one-sidedness of the whole thing inspired that scene. _

_So, what do you all think? Will any of the recruits heed the Commander's warning and leave? Will the trip to Orzammar be eventful? And who has what it takes to survive the Joining? Tune in next week. :) _


	4. Chapter 4

**_Analepsis 1 - Two weeks and one day before..._**

Zevran slid one finger lazily along the row of leather-clad spines, chuckling quietly to himself at his own wandering mind. It was to be expected, living in a fortress with only a finite number of willing bed partners— an even smaller fraction of whom he could trust to enter into such relations without the chance of unpleasant drama afterwards— that his tendency for innuendo would spill more often into his private thoughts.

He pulled a book down from the shelf he'd been browsing: _The Art of Passionate Love_. It was one he'd read before, after finding it tucked away in a shadowy corner of their library, and he thought he might give it another glance. It was scandalously amusing, and it at least gave him something to do with his hands and his mind that didn't involve _her_ for once.

He was not a man made for pining away over a woman. That was not his way, no matter how utterly extraordinary the woman in question might be. He'd been dealt a poor hand, perhaps, but he'd get over it.

Soon, with any luck.

It was just this thrice-damned fortress getting to him. Staying so long in one place, the distinct lack of killing, the _routine_ of it all…

Leading his brood of baby Wardens about by their green little noses had been amusing at first, but now he found himself slipping farther into monotony with a kind of clawing dread. He needed excitement, adventure, and to be away from all this responsibility and nagging. _Don't have sex with the recruits, Zevran; stop trying to turn the root cellar into a sauna, Zevran; would you at least keep your shirt on during training, Zevran!_

It would be best to just leave. He'd made no promises to anyone— not to stay, and not to help. He was becoming soft, squatting here amongst foolish children who thought they had some greater duty to fulfil somewhere in their grim futures.

Flopping into a nearby chair and swinging both of his legs over one plush arm, Zevran cracked open the book with a huff. He wondered if anyone else would believe that rubbish if he announced it tonight at supper. If he stood up on the table, kicking over gravy boats (he sometimes wondered why precisely all Ferelden food needed to be grey and soggy), and declared that he was tired of this cold, dreary country and all this boring Warden business. Then, with a flourish, he'd disappear into the night.

And _then_, perhaps, he'd sprout wings and fly all the way back to Antiva.

Deep in his heart— in a place Rinna, the idea of his mother, and a certain rounded face with bright sea-green eyes lingered quietly— he knew the one was just as likely as the other. He wouldn't leave. It wasn't that he couldn't, for if he felt at all trapped here he would certainly be looking for ways to escape, but he simply… wouldn't.

He tried to concentrate on the words in front of him, struggling to push his thoughts aside for a little while, but he hadn't even gotten a half-dozen pages in when he heard familiar footsteps from the corridor. He didn't look up, hoping that those feet would just keep walking, but no such luck. Sinking a little deeper into his chair, he willed himself invisible with every ounce of his skill.

Skill, however, could only take one so far when lounging in the middle of a well-lit library.

"Hi," Alistair said, and Zevran kept his eyes glued to the book in his lap.

"Hello." He forced his gaze to shift along the lines, unseeing. Alistair squirmed uncomfortably— he obviously hadn't expected to be so clearly ignored. He didn't leave, however, and after a few moments of tense silence, Zevran sighed and closed the book. "Did you need something, my friend?"

"Just, um, could we talk?" Upon closer inspection, Alistair appeared _quite_ uncomfortable. The tips of his ears were pink, and he was rubbing one hand across the back of his neck rather anxiously. How intriguing.

He knew Alistair was a good man, and Zevran considered him a friend, even in those brief, dark moments when he hated him slightly. Smiling in a reassuring way, he was torn between a kind of morbid curiosity at the possibility of some break in the tedium, and actual concern. "Certainly. Pull up a chair."

Alistair seemed completely out of sorts, and watching him fumble about was a little entertaining. He did pull a chair over, but before sitting he darted over and closed the library door. Then he locked it. Zevran felt his eyebrows twitch upwards— the plot appeared to be thickening.

Finally, after a few more fidgety moves, Alistair sat. With his back hunched and his hands clasped between his knees he was a model of discomfort and poorly executed secrecy.

"You and I are friends Zev, right? I mean, I've never really had a lot of friends, at least not close friends, but we get along all right. Right?" Zevran tilted his head, sensing there was a point somewhere in the rambling. "I guess what I mean is, well, I think you're kind of my best friend. And out of everybody, everybody we travelled with, I'm glad you're the one who stayed. Yeah."

It was a little like mild deathroot poisoning— everything went a little muzzy around the edges, and Zevran felt light-headed. Out of all the things he'd expected to hear after that fuss, such an earnest confession hadn't even made the list. He knew he was blinking stupidly, but he couldn't really help it.

"Truly?" He _certainly_ hadn't meant to sound so childishly hopeful, and he quickly cleared his throat. "Alistair, thank you. That… I am honoured you think so highly of me. I am also still rather new to this whole friendship business, but if I were to have a _best friend_, as you say, you are certainly he."

_She_ was not his best friend. He had not yet discovered the word to describe what she was.

The flash of Alistair's shy grin, coupled with the blushing and the camaraderie, should most definitely have _not_ shot such heat through him. Maker's holy _balls_, he had enough trouble with his foolish yearning for one Warden— he certainly wasn't going to revisit his brief attraction to the other one. No more of that nonsense.

Yet the conversation did not appear to be over. If anything, Alistair was looking more embarrassed than before, perhaps even more terrified. Without stifling his somewhat put-upon groan, Zevran tossed the book aside and sat up. "All right, enough. What is the issue? You are not a master of subtlety, and I fear you may explode if you don't just spit it out. I like this tunic, and I would prefer you not ruin it with your gore."

"It's—" Alistair dropped his head into his hands and keened the most desperate little sound. It made Zevran's hands clench. "Y'make'r heppy."

The words were mumbled anyway, as well as muffled, and Zevran felt a headache brewing. "I've no idea what you just said."

"You make her happy," Alistair enunciated, still not looking up. "She loves you."

"Ah." Trust this seemingly simple man to shock him with confessions of deep friendship, then strike where he was the most vulnerable. Very well played. "I had thought we were not to talk about that… slip of the tongue. She was not in her right mind."

"But she _loves_ you." When Alistair finally mustered himself enough to straighten out of his slouch and meet Zevran's guarded gaze, there was dire desperation in his tone and his expression. "I— I don't know what I would do if I couldn't be with her. She's a part of me, right down to my marrow, and it's because I _love_ her."

Zevran was a heartbeat away from hauling off and cracking the man in the jaw. What kind of torture was this meant to be? Was he wearing some kind of sign? _I'm contemplating my tragic infatuation! Please come regale me with all the things __**you**__ enjoy, and __**I**__ cannot have!_

"I never thought—" Oh, and the torment wasn't finished. Hurrah. "I can't hurt her like this."

"Pardon?" It was clear to Zevran that he needed Alistair to get to the point— quickly. This was all too bizarre and discomforting. "Please Alistair, for my sake. If you have something you wish to say to me, say it."

And that was how he ended up being kissed in the library.

It was rather unpleasant at first, truth be told. Alistair's lips were too dry and stiff, and Zevran was just too flabbergasted to respond. By the time his mind caught up with such a peculiar turn of events, there was a broad hand hesitantly touching his hair and Alistair's eyes were squeezed shut. This wasn't a quick, friendly peck then.

Zevran wasn't entirely sure what was more surprising— the kiss, or the talk of best friends. He was rather accustomed to people kissing him, but he'd never had anyone call him a _best friend_ before. For that alone, he owed Alistair better than this awkward failure.

He tilted his head slightly, leaning into the self-conscious rhythm Alistair had been trying to create. He softened his own mouth, brushing his lips across Alistair's gently, then with more pressure. Then he reached up and stroked Alistair's cheek, darting his tongue out smoothly and teasingly as he encouraged the other man to unclench his jaw.

Then it was as if something released, like a bowstring, and they were _really_ kissing. There was something magnificently primal about kissing another man, especially this kind of kiss, with tongues and teeth and strong fingers curling around his ear.

There was a part of him that wondered if this was how she kissed. If these movements and methods were Alistair, or what he'd learned from _her_. The thought of it made Zevran shudder, moaning as a sweet, unexpected heat settled low in his gut. This had suddenly become too dangerous, and he nearly sagged with relief when Alistair tore his mouth away and scrambled to the door.

Zevran was left panting, with the tingling in his groin making him feel like a naughty youth, and Alistair was already gone without another word.

There were fewer places than one might think to hide in the fortress. It was a relatively large structure, as defensible and luxurious as a noble's estate should properly be, but there always seemed to be someone everywhere you went. They didn't even have a particularly large serving staff, but there were considerable sections of the fortress kept locked and closed off for the time being, and that seemed to corral everyone into the same spaces more often than not.

So it was that Zevran followed the trail laid out for him by helpful servants and recruits, all more than willing to point him in the direction in which Alistair had absconded. As he'd expected, the man had not retreated far before going to ground.

Knocking twice, Zevran opened the door to the larder without waiting for an answer. Alistair looked like a boy caught stealing sweets, which was rather amusing given his choice of hiding place.

"Zev, I'm sorry—"

"Don't." It was his turn to close the door, and at the absence of any sort of lock inside the larder, he dragged a large crate of vegetables over. It wouldn't stop the door from opening, but it would slow down any interruptions. Then he turned back to Alistair and crossed his arms. "Perhaps it is a cultural thing, but I am hesitant to guess what you were thinking a moment ago. I assume you have at least some inkling, so please enlighten me."

Sitting half-crammed between the wall and a pair of large barrels, Alistair shifted about uneasily. "Uh, temporary insanity?"

Zevran snorted, stepping closer to his companion and ignoring the panicked look his move elicited. "As tempted as I may be to dispute the _temporary_ part…" He leaned his hip against one of the barrels, holding Alistair's gaze with a seriousness he rarely exhibited. "Tell me."

"I just wanted to see!" Ducking his head, Alistair seemed to realise that was scarcely an acceptable answer and flushed darkly. Zevran waited. "I really like you, Zev, I really do, and I've never done anything like that before."

That was hardly news, but then Alistair took a deep breath and soldiered on. "I'd never even kissed a girl before her, and then we started travelling together and I realised I liked her and liked spending time with her, and then eventually I realised I wasn't in the chantry anymore and if I really wanted to I _could_ kiss her. And I did, and it was wonderful, and I've never been happier, but I know she loves you, truly, and she'd never say it but I think she could be happier with me if… if she was also with you."

To his credit, Zevran had the grace not to let his mouth hang open like a fish. "Alistair…" Losing his cool just slightly, he braced one arm on the barrel. "Am I understanding you correctly? You kissed me, because you wish for me to become a part of your… relationship with our lovely commander?"

"Um. Yeah." More ducking and blushing, then: "I wanted to see if it was anything like kissing her. If I _could_ touch another man… like that."

It would have been in extremely bad taste to smirk at little, and thus he did not. He thought he might already know the answer to his next question, but he wouldn't assume anything at this point. "And what did you discover?"

When Alistair finally looked up at him, a little sweaty and nervous and rosy-cheeked, Zevran was reminded rather abruptly just how handsome this man was. He'd always been aware of it, aesthetically, but had been more in the realm of the abstract than the actual for a very long time. Alistair was too utterly daft most of the time to really be considered a sexual being, but at that moment, and perhaps in his private life with _her_, the childishness seemed to recede and he had a certain… quality.

When Alistair spoke, his voice had lowered into something more mature and rough than usual. It was unexpected, but not unpleasant. Not at all. "I think it might be… doable."

Zevran laughed, slipping easily into blatantly flirting with this man, his best friend. "Oh, I assure you I am very _doable_, my friend."

The expression on Alistair's face was rather fitting given their current situation— complete shock and bafflement with just a hint of arousal. "Oh Maker's breath, that was just _awful_! Does that line actually work, I mean, _ever?_"

It was a simple thing, leaning down and moving in so quickly Alistair wouldn't react until Zevran's breath was ghosting across his face. It was also rather fun.

Zevran licked his lips, pleased with the way Alistair watched him do so. "You tell me."

"Um," Alistair said, and Zevran kissed him again, ever so briefly. When his shoulder was caught in a firm grasp, Zevran didn't try to stifle a small, victorious smile— then he licked Alistair's lips.

"Such a lovely present this is, and it's not even my birthday," he murmured, enjoying the growing heat in those dark amber eyes more than he expected. "But we have many things to discuss— preferably soon. I must admit a certain _eagerness_ to bring this proposition before our lady, but we should consider some planning first."

"Planning?" Alistair sounded dazed, which was complimentary but not precisely conducive to moving forward with the larger scheme of things. Zevran leaned back on his heels, removing himself from Alistair's space, but the hand still on his shoulder kept him close.

"Sex between two people can take many forms, from simple to complex, but communication is usually rather straightforward. When there are three… well, it tends to be best in the beginning if all parties are made aware of their partners' limitations." When Alistair simply looked more confused, Zevran sighed. "No one should feel pushed aside, and no one should be uncomfortable. It is a mutual sharing of pleasure, and…" Maker's mercy, the man was still staring at him like a dozy calf. Tact was not the answer here, apparently. "Oh, sod it. To be completely blunt, Alistair, I'd rather not scare you off with my cock."

"Is it scary?" Surprisingly, Zevran couldn't tell if Alistair was being serious or not. "I mean, does it bite or something? Does it recite terrible limericks?"

_Now_ he could tell. "I was trying to be considerate, you ass. Never again."

Alistair was actually _giggling_ of all things, and Zevran slapped his knee. "Ow, hey! We were sort of having a moment there, and then you started hitting!"

"That was most definitely not _a moment_. You will know when we have a moment."

"Really?" If this was how it was going to be, Zevran would have to acclimatise himself to these strange, shifting moods. Alistair wasn't teasing anymore, and although his lingering apprehension was still apparent, the entire exchange was undeniably promising.

"Yes, really." Nothing would happen, however, without her. "Now be serious."

It took a moment, but eventually they were both on the same page. Shifting some boxes out of the way, they even found a space of wall wide enough to sit side-by-side. This had become a strategy meeting, and Zevran felt like a commander.

A _sex_ commander, so it was actually rather magnificent.

After some discussion of vague issues, meant to test the waters and determine how sincere Alistair's interest in this idea might actually be, Zevran began to ask questions in earnest.

"You are comfortable with the idea of me touching her, yes? I think you would not have come to me with this if I was to be relegated only to watch." He paused, considering. "Although if this arrangement happens to continue past one or two encounters, that might be an interesting idea."

Alistair was slowly overcoming the need to make jokes, which was very clearly a defence against his anxiety and embarrassment at actually discussing sexual details, and his face seemed to have gone permanently blotchy crimson. "Yes well, I mean, it'll be strange at first, but I know it won't change how she feels about me. She loves us both _now_— how is sex going to change that except to make her happier? I'm not afraid she'll stop loving me, or anything."

Zevran nodded. "I'm rather impressed, my friend. You have come very far in the time I've know you, and I think you've grown for the better."

Shrugging off the compliment, Alistair just snorted and gave Zevran a knowing glance out of the corner of his eye. "You're just happy because you finally get the chance to bed her."

"I am _ecstatic_," Zevran corrected, a small thrill jolting through him. "But back to the matter at hand. I may touch her, kiss her, and make love to her— if she agrees to this, of course. What about you?"

"I don't need permission. I do all that anyway." Looking at him carefully, Zevran was unsure if this was deliberate misunderstanding. The other man was proving surprisingly difficult to read in terms of intimate discussion— he could be as evasive as a live mudfish wriggling about in one's bare hands.

Alistair seemed unaware or unwilling to mention the scrutiny his last answer had elicited, and so Zevran rephrased.

"Am I to assume from your glib response that my attentions should be limited to the lady? If so, we must make it clear now. I would not object to such a restriction, but if you are willing, I do find you very attractive as well."

"You do?" Alistair pulled at the collar of his wool tunic, clearing his throat. "I— thank you, Zevran. I think… um, I think you're beautiful." The last part was said very quietly, as was the next. "Or handsome, or whatever. And, well, I wouldn't mind if this was more of a… shared experience."

"Alistair—" Zevran reached out and touched his strong, stubbly chin, gently directing Alistair's face back towards him. "Thank you for the compliment. I must ask, are you aware of the things two men do together?"

Alistair swallowed visibly. "Uh. Sort of?" It was more of a question than an answer, and Zevran chuckled, stroking Alistair's jaw soothingly.

"Between us, I think, there would be kissing." He lowered his voice, trying to draw Alistair into the delicious images he was painting. "And touching— strong hands caressing firm, muscled flesh. Perhaps licking, rubbing—"

"All right," Alistair gasped, grabbing Zevran's hand as it began to trail down his neck. "I'm good with all that. Really, too good with it. But what about—" He made some gesture, waving his free hand about. "About going _in_?"

"You speak of penetration?" The nonsensical stammer he received was answer enough, and Zevran squeezed Alistair's fingers. "Well, for me, I rather relish the idea of being taken by such an… athletic man as yourself. If you are of a mind."

Alistair squeaked, and Zevran deliberately did not glance down at the growing bulge this conversation had produced. If he were not so well trained in self-control, Zevran knew he would also be rather visibly interested.

"But I think," he continued, allowing Alistair a moment to calm himself. "A first encounter between the three of us should focus on her. That is what I would prefer, at least."

"Yes, all right. Agreed."

It wasn't long before they had a plan drafted, as well as a few ideas to save for a later time; Zevran could feel the anticipation building, buzzing over his skin. There were still realities he could not ignore, however, and there were some things more important than his pleasure. His life had changed drastically in the past months, and he could not forget that.

"I am going to leave now, Alistair," he said calmly, placing one hand on the other man's bent knee. "I wish for you to take a day, perhaps two, and consider this carefully before we approach her with it. Consider if you are ready for this kind of change to all of our relationships with each other."

Alistair frowned, suddenly looking rather offended. "Zevran, I wouldn't have brought this up if I wasn't sure."

"I know, my friend, but please. It will… set my mind at ease, and give me a chance to consider things well away from your strapping form."

Not rising to the bait, Alistair huffed out an obviously frustrated breath. "Fine. Tomorrow night?"

He considered teasing his wanton little templar, but resisted in the interest of keeping the conversation serious. "No, the evening after. We both have weapons training with the brood all day tomorrow, and I'd rather not approach this experience fatigued. First impressions, you understand."

Not waiting for further argument, Zevran pulled himself to his feet and brushed off the seat of his trousers before sauntering over to the door. He could feel Alistair's eyes on him, but he would not allow his hope to overtake his prudence. Things could still go awry.

"Just remember," he said, keeping his attention on the crate he was moving out of the way. "If you change your mind, for whatever reason, I will not be offended. This is an enormous gift you offer Alistair, but I will not risk friendship for it."

"Zev—" He paused, fingers on the door handle, but did not turn around. "You really mean that, don't you?" Alistair's laughter was surprising, but did not sound unkind. "I'm not the only one who's grown, friend, and perhaps for the better."

"Perhaps," Zevran murmured, more to himself than to Alistair, then he slipped out of the larder and into two excruciatingly long days.

* * *

_AN: Apologies for those waiting on the fate of the recruits, and wild thanks for your kind reviews once again. For whatever reason, I needed to try my hand at Zevran first, and give he and Alistair a bit of time together. Next chapter won't be a flashback, promise._


	5. Chapter 5

_Line breaks change POV, but I hope that's clear anyway._

* * *

Alistair couldn't sleep.

This was not a common occurrence— it had been a running joke amongst their old company that he could and would sleep through absolutely anything except the smell of cheese on toast. Yet, there he found himself, lying in bed and trying not to fidget as he watched the dim firelight flicker against the shadows.

Every time one of his bedmates would shift or sigh, he'd shut his eyes; there was no reason to bother them with his ridiculous contemplations. He couldn't stop worrying about their recruits, about how many would still sit across the table from them in the morning, and even more terrifying, how many of them would remain in a few weeks after they returned from Orzammar. How many would he be forced to watch die at his feet, gasping and writhing with the kind of unimaginable pain he'd never been able to forget?

Eventually, around the time Alistair decided he might just get up— maybe add some wood to the fire and read for a while— she sat up. He froze, drawing on all his discipline to remain still and relaxed. It was actually not dissimilar from mediating, which was one part of his templar training he had kept up.

He felt her touch his cheek, feather-light, then she was sliding out of bed as smoothly as smoke; the mattress hardly moved at all. Slitting one eye open, he watched her pull on his discarded shirt, hugging its folds around her tiny body. Then, without a single audible footfall, she slunk out of the bedroom and into the corridor, closing the door behind herself.

It was difficult not to follow, but Zevran's arm across his chest was suddenly as firm as an iron band. "Leave her," the elf whispered, pressing a kiss against Alistair's shoulder. "She needs time, I think."

Alistair took a moment to consider that he'd been _sure_ he was the only one still awake—perhaps he was getting too complacent, as Zevran had so recently complained about all of them. He curled his arm around Zevran's back, pulling him closer.

"You think she's gone to check on the brood?" He used Zevran's somewhat insulting term for the recruits, as he only ever did in the privacy of their chambers. To the recruits, Alistair was the kind, sometimes silly authority, and he liked it that way.

He felt the warm foot slide up his calf with some measure of amusement and interest, but the heavy cloud of worry swirling about in the shadows made it impossible to take Zevran's oversexed nature seriously.

"I'm not sure." Despite his enticing movements, Zevran's voice was layered with unease. "She's been rather impenetrable about this whole thing. I am… concerned."

"Yeah. Me too."

They were both quiet for a time, retreating into thoughts of their love and her obvious pain, until Zevran cursed so loudly Alistair nearly shrieked.

"_Brasca_," he said again, this time more of a growl. "We are idiots."

Zevran was already climbing out of bed, leaving Alistair alone and very confused. He grabbed one sinewy wrist before Zevran could get too far. "What? Why?"

Rather than accept the restraint, Zevran wrapped his own hand around Alistair's forearm and yanked him out of his recline. There was a touch of desperation flitting across his angular features, visible even in the dim light. "Because you listened to me, and I let you! Now, get up."

Still downright baffled, Alistair did as he was bid, rolling to his feet and pulling on a pair of wrinkled trousers. He watched Zevran yank on his own leggings with undue force, and the elf didn't even bother to lace them fully before grabbing Alistair's elbow and striding purposefully out into the corridor.

"Neither of us has ever had a woman like her before, _cariño_, and we've made a tactical error. My fault, I fear." Zevran stopped to open all the doors in their private wing, cursing anew at every empty room. "We should not have left her to suffer this alone. That is what I _would_ have done, before."

Alistair didn't have to ask before what. Before he cared.

"So we're going to find her?" Zevran shot him an exasperated look, but Alistair's mind was already off and running. He _knew_ his dearest love, and if she was hurting and trying to be strong she'd— "Ah! The kennels!"

Now Zevran was the one being dragged about as Alistair sprinted down twisting hallways. Her beloved mabari had given up his usual haunt of sleeping outside their chambers when Bann Teagan had sent them a pair of pups from his own small pack about a month before. The older dog had taken to the pups surprisingly well, and the three of them had a rather comfortable little den built in the kennels. Alistair knew that dog had been a comfort to her even longer than he had.

There was a sliver of light shining out from beneath the door to the kennels, and Alistair skidded to a stop, causing Zevran to bump into his back. He was unbelievably glad no one was around this late at night, because he was sure the pair of them looked like utter fools— standing half-naked in a dark corridor, staring at the kennel door like it might bite.

"She's in there," he whispered, and Zevran made a sarcastic little sound. Alistair narrowed his eyes. "Oh shut up."

"I didn't say a word, my observant friend." Zevran's voice was barely a murmur, and Alistair suddenly felt incredibly loud just breathing. "Why did you stop?"

"I guess…" He tried to make his whisper even softer, but he just sounded raspy. "I don't know. We should go in, right?"

Zevran didn't answer, except to roll his eyes and slip past Alistair's unmoving form. He pressed one tapered ear against the door, then motioned for Alistair to approach.

He took a deep breath, a little relieved when Zevran did as well, then blinked foolishly into the lamplight as the door was eased open.

The dogs didn't even growl, which may have been testament to mabari senses or to nervous men's inability to sneak about properly. Regardless, they'd found her.

"Hello," she said quietly, with very little surprise in her voice. "I'm sorry I woke you."

Her head was barely visible above the massive brown back pressing her up against one wall, and she'd obviously been snuggling with her hound for a while if the dog's contented, sleepy expression was anything to go by. The pups were curled together nearby, and their bright little eyes watched the two men closely, even as their stumpy tails beat against the blankets on the floor.

It was Alistair's turn to slip around a hesitant Zevran, for the elf might be more comfortable with traipsing around the fortress in naught but trousers, but Alistair was far more experienced with sentiment. He took a few more steps, then knelt and gave the mabari a scratch under the chin. "We couldn't sleep either. Would it be stupid to ask if you're all right?"

She chuckled softly, wiping at the dampness he could now see in the corners of her eyes. "A little, yes, but do it anyway." Before he could say anything, however, she was sliding over (making the mabari groan piteously) and crawling into his arms. He hugged her close, feeling the tension thrumming through her, and brushed her loose hair away from her face.

"I'm trying to be all right," she murmured against his chest, and at last she was allowing sorrow to creep into her tone, rather than just the anger or the detachment. "I feel like a foolish little girl— how am I going to handle the Joining if I can't handle this?"

"You _can_ handle this." Alistair's words were soft, but undeniably firm— he believed in her, and he needed her to do the same. "But you don't have to handle it alone. You know that." When she nodded, still hiding her face, his relief allowed him to finally notice how Zevran was hovering silently by the doorway. The elf's attempts to look nonchalant were not especially effective, and Alistair jerked his head to motion him over.

With the way Zevran slunk closer, one might think the huddled couple were ogres in poorly done disguises. Then she looked up at him, and although Alistair couldn't see her expression, he could guess it was rather affecting. Zevran frowned deeply as he lowered himself to squat beside them, and it was clear he'd suddenly allowed many of his masks to slip, at least somewhat. Alistair felt almost as if he were intruding, watching with a measure of awe as familiar features, usually so unflappable and self-assured, changed into something somehow more… real.

Zevran was here with them, entirely, and for the first time Alistair _knew_ he was. He'd told the elf he loved him, and after all they'd been through together and how close they'd become over the months at Amaranthine and especially the past couple of weeks, it was true. He wasn't sure, however, that he'd ever seen _this_ Zevran for more than a moment or two before— just a man, without the gloss and the sheen, and shockingly enough someone who, without all that, actually seemed more like Zevran.

She reached out, tugging Zevran closer, and after only a minor hesitation Alistair felt an arm wrap around his back, and then they were all embracing. She was tucked between them, cocooned almost entirely, and Zevran's eyes stayed firmly closed as he rested his face against her hair.

Everything was fine, and nothing bad could touch them for a few moments, until Alistair felt his thigh start to cramp. He tried desperately to ignore it, but then it twinged sharply, and that was _it_.

"Sorry, sorry—" Trying to shift around while kneeling on a stone floor, cradling a dwarf while an elf was half in your lap as well was exactly as challenging as it sounded. Zevran had the utter gall to give him a dirty look when she made a protesting little groan.

"Come on," she said, inadvertently forestalling all immanent sniping. "We've got a perfectly serviceable bed and my legs are cold."

The fact that Zevran didn't make some lascivious remark about warming her up was unexpected, and quite telling about the current mood. It took a bit of squirming, but then they were all on their feet and she was saying goodbye to the dogs before retrieving the lantern.

Her face was illuminated in warm light, but the shadows were still flickering in her eyes when she held the lantern up. "We'll have to put this back in the kitchens, or Victor will have my hide. He's in starting breakfast before the sun rises, usually."

Zevran growled softly, taking the lantern from her as they made their way out into the corridor. "Victor will stay well away from your hide, the fat, lecherous bastard." Shaking her head, she slipped one arm around Zevran's waist and then entwined the fingers of her other hand with Alistair's.

"He's a fine cook, Zev." She was grinning knowingly, if a little dimly, while Alistair was trying not to think of the way his pilfered shirt hung off her, hiding her curves but somehow making him yearn to search for them. None of them was in a proper state of mind for that. "Are you more upset that he so obviously covets my rear end, or that he insulted Antivan cuisine?"

Alistair watched, perhaps too closely, as Zevran's hand slid down her back to cup the aforementioned read end— that the move elicited a warm chuckle from her was progress.

"I could hardly fault him the first, could I? He is only a mortal man after all." Zevran leaned in to press a kiss against her temple. "But how can someone who purports to be a cook of any sort so flatly dismiss the delectable array of spices and textures my homeland offers? He is a food bigot, obviously, and he certainly wouldn't know what to do with such a delectable morsel as you, my darling one."

"Oh, obviously," Alistair intoned, playing along because the levity seemed to be catching on at least a little. "Wait— didn't you lecture me once on patriotism and the deep affection you hold for your adopted home? Has your stomach not caught up with your national pride?"

They'd nearly reached their first destination, despite their meandering pace; when they came upon the kitchen door, Alistair eased it open. Leaning in just long enough to hang the lantern on its hook, Zevran made sure his dubious expression was noted before blowing out the light. They were plunged into darkness, and Zevran's voice dropped to barely a whisper. There would be at least one of the younger scullions sleeping by the hearth around the corner, and no reason to wake him or her.

"My patriotism has limits, dear man—"

She shushed them, and Alistair fumbled to close the door again. It was one of those moments when he felt especially clumsy next to the two of them, and it just got worse when she tugged his hand deeper into the shadowy corridor. Certainly there were sections of hallway with windows and moonlight, but here by the kitchens? Pitch black.

"I'm going to break my neck," he grumbled, squinting like it might help. When her hand wriggled free of his, he suffered a moment of absurd panic, but then he felt two familiar arms come around his waist, and the press of her small body against his.

"No, you're not." He heard the seriousness and the reproach in her voice, and hugged her tightly. "You're not allowed. Either of you."

They made it back to their chambers eventually, though through unspoken agreement they took the longer way round to avoid the recruits' barracks. The fire was down to a few faintly glowing coals when they entered, and the first thing Alistair did was go over to tend it. A bit of poking about and the coals were bright red again, then he tossed on some smaller wood to get it going.

"Thank you," she said, sliding past him to squat near the newly caught flames and warm her hands. "For… everything."

He smiled at her back, still troubled but also utterly secure in the knowledge that they'd all get through this. She was the most amazing woman he'd ever met, and he and Zevran weren't exactly slouches either.

Something soft and warm landed against his bare feet— something that ended up being Zevran's leggings. Unashamedly naked, he was already crawling back into their bed, yanking the covers up around himself until only his face was visible.

"My dears," he called to them, smirking just slightly. "I am but a lithe and delicate elf from a sun-warmed land. If I am to live comfortably through the rest of this winter's night, I require warm bodies in ample supply."

She snorted, but the air of hopelessness surrounding her was lifting, replaced by a growing determination. "Is two enough, lover, or shall I call for some servants as well?"

As she stood and the pair of them moved towards the bed, Zevran seemed to consider the question with mock seriousness— Alistair was reasonably confident it was mock seriousness. He lifted the pile of covers, allowing her to precede him, and Zevran immediately pulled her towards himself, growling playfully. Stepping out of his trousers, Alistair plopped down on the mattress with a huff, a bit relieved to be on the outer edge of their tangle this time. Sharing a bed with the pair of them was rewarding in a great many ways, but sometimes a man just needed _not_ to sweat to death in his sleep.

"Don't you rip my shirt," he warned, smushing the sides of his pillow until it was suitably fluffy. A heartbeat later, and he watched the shirt fly through the air over his head and off the side of the bed, seemingly intact.

Shifting over, Alistair reached out and caressed a few random bits of flesh hidden under the blankets, seeking comfort rather than excitement. Despite Zevran's usual teasing, it was clear they were settling in to try and get some sleep rather than anything else.

After the squirming petered off, but before Alistair acknowledged the drowsiness threatening the edges of his brain, Zevran spoke quietly. "Would you like to speak of what is to come, _mis queridos_?"

When she remained silent, Alistair was suddenly too weary to bite back his sigh. "I would," he said, and it was not only for her benefit. "I'm… I'm not sure how I'm going to feel if some of them left tonight. I think I'll be, well, a little relieved maybe? Disappointed, as well. I mean, I would be proud to call each one of them my brother or sister in arms, but I know that's… not possible, and that if they just left their lives would be so much simpler." He sighed again, and his memories of a determined, unflinching Duncan seemed distant. "It feels different doing this now, I suppose. Not facing a Blight."

She rolled onto her back, not looking at either of them directly, but neither was she hiding. Alistair rested his hand on her belly.

"None of them will live to see a Blight." She wasn't exactly staring at the ceiling, but rather she seemed to be searching for something in the dimness. Her voice was willowy— almost questioning. "But they'll make a difference. They'll fight darkspawn, and they will be the foundation of our new order. They will stand vigilant."

"They will," Alistair rumbled, his throat feeling thick. He might question himself, and there had been darker days when he truly questioned her, but he never questioned that.

* * *

They didn't speak more than a few cursory words the next morning as they prepared for the day, but the tension felt less… dark, after their talk. The three of them had managed only two or three hours of sleep, but the catharsis was worth the lingering fatigue.

For her, at least, and she thought her loves would call it worthwhile as well.

Once they were all dressed and ready, in casual clothing rather than armour, she drew each of them down for a kiss— and if she clung a little desperately for a moment, neither mentioned it.

"Onward, then," she murmured, tucking all her weakness back inside as she straightened her posture, a proper commander again, and walked out into the corridor.

They were late, but she couldn't have borne sitting and waiting as each of the recruits filtered in, or didn't. As the three of them approached the door to the dining hall, she was the essence of calm. She was as strong and hard as the Stone that made her, and she would not falter now.

She forced herself not to start counting heads when she stepped inside the room, but it wasn't as though she stood before a legion of men and women. Each face she saw still sitting at her table made her stomach clench, but also sent an unexpected wave of relief through her. They had not all been scared off, and that was both a blessing and a curse.

"Good morning, recruits," she all but bellowed, and the startled clattering of silverware made Zevran huff out a brief laugh.

Nine faces yesterday, and nine today. Not _one_ of them had the good sense to heed her warning. It was… infuriating, but she couldn't bring herself to be angry with the recruits themselves. She'd had several chances to leave Duncan during their first journey together, from Orzammar to Ostagar, and although she'd considered abandoning the humans to their folly, she had remained.

She had remained, and despite all the horror and the sacrifices, she was proud of the choices she'd made.

"Good morning, commander," the brood replied, more or less in unison. There was a brief moment of stillness, but then Alistair's hand was resting gently on her back, and Zevran's fingers brushed her elbow, and she was able to move forward and sit.

She considered her words carefully as Alistair pushed her chair in for her, but their paths were set out before them now, and she would be nothing if not candid with these recruits.

She began conversationally, reaching for some bread and sliced pork. "I hope you have not all remained because you thought my warnings a jest, or worse still, a test of your mettle. They were neither." Lifting her eyes from the food, she shook her head at the determined expressions her brood wore. "But, here you are, and I will not question your decisions, nor will I renege on my word. We're well and truly stuck with each other now."

"One big, well-armed family," Zevran supplied cheerfully, giving the breakfast fare a sceptical glance as he filled his own plate. "How sweet we all are, my dears."

"Here, here—" Alistair raised his mug, and the tension in the room began to ebb away. "I'm proud of you, recruits."

"If I may, sers?" By the way the others glanced at him, it was clear Leofric had been chosen to be their voice for whatever questions they'd no doubt spent most of the night whispering about. She waved her hand for him to continue, slightly amused at the contrast between the propriety of his tone, and the bit of jam smeared at the corner of his mouth. "A few of us were wondering what is to come next. That is, are we to become full Wardens now? I'd heard from some of the knights in Redcliffe that there is some kind of ritual?"

Alistair's expression sobered, and when he started answering she was more than happy to let him. "There is, Leofric, and I suppose we shouldn't be surprised there'd be rumours about it. Not after the last Landsmeet." The Landsmeet, and Riordan's… suggestion. Apparently, all it took to ruin the _secrecy_ part of a secret ritual was to announce it in front of every noble in Ferelden.

"It's called the Joining," she added. "It is very dangerous, but it is something every Grey Warden must undergo." Glancing between Soren and Remya, she smiled slightly. "We'll be travelling to Orzammar for part of it."

As she's expected, Soren puffed up a bit, while Remya did not look enthused. It was likely she expected the return of a young warrior caste, now a member of a deeply respected order, to be much better received than some cloud-headed brand. That assumption would not be addressed then, in front of all these surfacers, but later she would have to speak to Remya about it.

There was a bit of a buzz amongst them now, and Rimon spoke up before Leofric could ask anything else. "Orzammar? The dwaven city?"

Her smile turned indulgent at the wonder in his voice. "Yes, the dwarven city. We'll be leaving tomorrow, if all our supplies have arrived."

Keliani, sitting at Rimon's right, did not seem so awed at the prospect, but she had always seemed much more guarded than her fellow elf since they'd both approached the Wardens in Denerim. "Is this Joining why you warned us off, Commander? What kind of ritual is it?"

"A dangerous one, as I said." She sighed, setting her fork down. "It is kept secret for a reason, not simply for cruelty's sake. I hope you can believe me."

The young elven woman, whose eyes always looked too old for her smooth, tanned face, shook her head ruefully. "I've known cruelty, Commander, but never from you. If you say it must be secret, then I will accept that."

Carran was massacring a piece of bread, tearing it into tiny pieces, but there was steel in his tone when he spoke up. It was, of course, the same strength that had kept him alive while fighting legions of undead. "Can you tell us anything about it, Commander? Just an idea of what to expect?"

"I can tell you to be ready to leave tomorrow morning, with full arms and armour. Anything else will be explained when the time comes, I promise. Now, you should all use today to decide what personal supplies you'll need and pack your gear." She had explained all of this to Alistair and Zevran the night before, but this next announcement she'd kept to herself. "I've managed to secure a wagon for the journey, and we'll finally have a chance to take the horses out on a real trip."

The two surprised grins she received were quite welcome, and she could already see the wheels turning in Zevran's mind. A wagon certainly would allow a bit more privacy during their excursion, compared to the thin canvas walls of a tent.

The Orlesian Grey Wardens had arrived in Ferelden shortly after the archdemon was slain, and their visit had been an interesting one, to say the least. Still, after all the blustering and politicking wound down, they'd eventually left peacefully— without convincing her to agree to an Orlesian presence in Amaranthine, and also without a pair of their monstrous warhorses. The horses were a gift, they'd insisted, and there had been much more pressing matters to argue about so she'd simply accepted them. While you'd never catch her actually climbing on the back of one of the blighted things, she was more than willing to allow them to pull her about.

"All right, enough." Her stomach was growling, and she needed to put her foot down on this interrogation before the questions still visibly bubbling under the surface could be asked. "I'm going to eat now. Feel free to try and pry more information out of me later." To punctuate, she took a too-big bite of cheese and bread, chewing with exaggerated relish.

* * *

They'd all gathered as usual in Remya and Keliani's room— it wasn't the neatest (that honour went to the room Rimon, Eddard and Leofric shared, but with all their gear stowed in there it was more cramped), but somehow it had turned into their unofficial headquarters of gossip and rumour. The room had three beds total— one alone, and a set of bunk beds— and the extra mattress provided some appreciated seating space when the nine of them congregated.

Remya was sitting on the edge of her upper bunk, swinging her legs impatiently. "Where _are_ they?"

Amery, sprawled lazily on the bed below, swatted at her bare feet. "Stuff it, half-pint. The longer they take, the more likely they actually got some information."

She snorted, kicking his hand a little too hard. "Come up here and call me that, salroka. I'll make you as pretty as your brother."

"Hey," Ambrose protested from his perch on Keliani's footlocker, rubbing his scarred cheek somewhat self-consciously. "Don't start taking shots at my charming mug because he's a bastard."

Keliani herself was sitting cross-legged on the end of her own bed, and she reached out to touch Ambrose's back. "You _are_ charming, Amby, and you've got character."

"Unlike your arse of a brother," Remya added, shooting Ambrose her version of an apologetic grin (which was not all that apologetic looking, but the thought counted). "Who just _is_ a character."

Laughing off the friendly half-insult in a way Ambrose tried to, but never could, Amery stretched out across the mattress with a foolish smirk. "I try, my dearest ladies. Somebody's got to lighten this blighted mood, and it's certainly not going to be the doom-and-gloom brigade." He jerked his thumb at Soren, who was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, then at Carran and Leofric, who were both sitting on the floor by the door.

"I am simply waiting for information, with an appropriate amount of seriousness," Leofric corrected, rather primly, while Carran shrugged.

"I'm a little nervous, is all, and I don't mind saying so. You're all nervous too."

There was a brief, awkward silence, but then Ambrose chuckled softly. "Yeah, Carran, we are. This Joining thing's got us all out of sorts."

Suddenly the door was creaking open, and Rimon darted inside just ahead of Eddard's bulk— the latter nearly having to duck to get under the lintel.

"Nothing," Eddard announced, pre-empting any anxious questioning. "I got a firm 'Wait and see' from the commander, and Rimon got the same from Alistair."

Amery sat up, some of the humour fading from his expression. "What about Zevran?"

Rimon shook his head, flopping onto the bed beside Keliani. "Once we actually found him, I just got laughed at and I think Ed got propositioned."

"I did _not_." Eddard started meandering about the room, considering where he could squeeze in comfortably, until Remya patted the empty stretch of mattress next to her.

"Climb up, Ed, unless you want to get cosy with the mouth down below." She shrieked and lifted her feet when Amery tried to grab her ankles, and Eddard groaned.

"I'm not sure which is worse," he rumbled, but he did manage to teeter up the ladder without anything collapsing. Before he got himself settled, Remya was half in his lap.

She grinned toothily at his growing flush, aware that he wasn't at all comfortable with getting _cosy_ in front of the others. "You don't mean that, you sour old giant."

"No—" He tried to shift around enough that it didn't feel like he was about to tumble off the edge, but she was all limbs and hands and clinging to him, so after a moment of struggle he just leaned back against the wall and gave up. "You're right. I _know_ which is worse."

Keliani rolled her eyes, more than familiar with the sometimes-difficult temperament of her boisterous roommate, and with the dwarf's blossoming relationship with the long-suffering Eddard. "Could we get back to the matter at hand? We're leaving tomorrow morning for Maker knows what, except that whatever we're doing is very dangerous, and our last chance at getting any information has failed. What do we do now?"

"We wait, I suppose." Ambrose drummed his fingers against his thighs, glancing at the faces around him. "We all wanted to be Grey Wardens, didn't we? What's a little unknown danger, eh?"

"We're Grey Wardens going to Orzammar." It was the first time Soren had spoken since their informal meeting had begun, and his grave tone was hardly reassuring. "Do any of you know what that means?"

"Darkspawn." Remya suddenly sounded a lot less brash than usual, and Eddard didn't object when she tightened her arms around his chest. "There's always darkspawn in Orzammar."

Soren didn't even glance in her direction, but he did nod. "Exactly. Now, I could be wrong, and the commander could just toss us all in the Proving Arena and let us hack each other apart, but my guess is she's sending us into the Deep Roads."

"Well," Carran murmured, resting his chin on his bent knees. "It's what we signed up for."

Amery's boots banged against the floor with a jarring clatter as he swung himself dramatically out of the bed, moving to stand in the middle of the small room. "That we did, Carran. That we did."

Fists on his hips, the authoritative image he was trying to create was hampered by the way his short, mousy-brown curls had gone frizzy from the dry winter air and all the wriggling he'd done in the bed. The sight of it made Ambrose run careful fingers through his own hair, but Amery seemed oblivious.

"We're Grey Wardens," he announced proudly, and for all his silliness and his ridiculous hair, his passion was genuine. "Or will be soon enough. Let's act it, shall we? We'll pack our gear, and go slaughter some nightmarish creatures like proper heroes."

"Huzzah," Eddard exclaimed, somewhat dryly, but then the others chimed in. The tension wavered, and confidence began to grow.

For that moment at least, crammed together in one of their small barracks rooms, they all felt a little less like children playing in a world far too big for them. They were Grey Wardens, and they were off to slay the monsters.

* * *

_AN: I had meant to get this out sooner, but something about this chapter stuck in my craw. It reminded me why I usually stick to one-shots, but now it's done. _

_Thank you all for the reviews, and I'm very happy you like it so far. Next up, the trip to Orzammar, which I'm really excited about. _


	6. Chapter 6

It had taken the majority of the day, but she'd finally managed to get everything in order with their supplies, and making sure the fortress would still be standing when they returned. Their compliment of guardsmen, made up of the same mercenary force Eamon had hired during the battle for Denerim, were skilled enough that she felt only a mild discomfort leaving Amaranthine for so long. As for the servants, if she didn't trust them she wouldn't keep them on— still, she did make certain that all the particularly dangerous artefacts they'd be leaving behind were well hidden. It would hardly do for some poor, curious maid to paralyse or poison herself while cleaning their chambers.

She'd even remembered to inform Victor about the significant increase in food they'd need once they returned, and she didn't allow herself to consider that perhaps too few would survive for the post-Joining hunger to really affect their average consumption. The cook had only given her the briefest of questioning looks, but she was so obviously harried (and she was the commander, after all) that she managed to avoid having to explain.

Her head was still spinning with figures and averages and schedules when she finally staggered back to the seclusion of her study, unlocking the desk drawer that held her translation of Riordan's notes. She riffled through the familiar pages, seeking a certain critical passage as she sat back in her chair.

_The key to performing the Joining ritual is the concentration of darkspawn taint. In order to have any chance of surviving the infection, and to avoid succumbing as a ghoul, the mixture must be tremendously concentrated. Only silver items may be used, both to hold and stir the mixture, as any other metal or glass will be quickly destroyed by the corruption._

_If at all possible, mages preparing the mixture should be Grey Wardens themselves. Any untainted mages should strictly avoid contact with any blood during the preparation process. If contact occurs, especially with archedemon blood, the casualty should be conscripted without delay and without dispute. It is the responsibility of the Grey Wardens, in requiring the assistance of mages for this ritual, to deal with such accidents swiftly and with great regret. _

That was just one more thing to worry about— poisoning mages when the Circle was still limping along.

She couldn't think about this anymore. More roughly than necessary, she shoved the papers away again, abandoning her former need to re-read the Joining instructions. She knew them by heart anyway; it was just masochism and neuroses grabbing hold of her will, and she was stronger than that.

Alistair and Zevran had probably finished their own preparations, but she wasn't quite ready to face them yet. This would be their last night of complete privacy for weeks, and as much as getting a good night's rest would be the mature, responsible thing to do, she had her doubts the evening would progress so sensibly. Perhaps it didn't speak well of her leadership that she wasn't averse to wringing every moment of uninhibited pleasure out of the evening, either.

It was hardly realistic to expect they'd not have any sex at all during the trip, but opportunities would be limited by their rustic accommodations. Moreover, she wasn't thrilled at the idea of amusing the brood with ecstatic screams, so they would have to be at least somewhat discreet. She resigned herself to receiving a few shocked looks from the recruits the first time the three of them retired to the wagon together, but she was not nearly so concerned about it as she thought she should be.

The windows in her study were westward facing, and with a glance at the low hanging sun (it had been rather challenging, but eventually she'd learned to estimate time based on the sun's position— it made her feel almost uncomfortably air-touched), she decided to check on her dear men. Hopefully they'd begun packing some of her personal gear as well, as she'd asked them to do. Perhaps she'd even reward them if they had.

* * *

"Aw, damn." Amery glanced up from trouncing Leofric and Carran at Wicked Grace, favouring Eddard with a disappointed moue. "I'd hoped you'd be Keliani come to bunk politely with the gentlemen. Not spending this last night of thick stone walls and soft mattresses with your lady-love?"

Eddard closed the door behind himself, tossing his now freshly aired-out and tied bedroll over beside his stuffed pack. "She's not my anything. Shut up."

Amery shrugged, turning back to his cards. "Right. So you wouldn't rip my spine out through my mouth if I asked her sweet little form back to my room for a tumble?"

Growling in warning, Eddard moved his greatsword off his bed and sat, pressing thick fingers against his temples. "Why aren't you _in_ your room, Amery? Did torturing Ambrose finally get boring?"

Laying down a particularly good hand with a flourish, the slender young man laughed. "Hasn't gotten boring in nineteen years— why would it start now? But no, I'm just teaching the boys here a few things about gambling and humility, and Amby's being a baby about getting some rest and whatnot. So we moved the party here."

"Serpents over swords," Carran announced, smiling slyly. "I win."

"What?" Amery stared at the cards spread out on the footlocker like they'd spit in his face and insulted his mother. "Arse."

Eddard was really, _really_ not in the mood for this. He resigned himself to ignoring Amery until he got control of his headache, and so turned his attention to Leofric for his next question. "Where's Rimon?"

The former knight was nearly five years Eddard's senior, but something about being the son of a bann had inspired a vaguely deferent tone that Eddard sorely wished he'd give up. "I'm not certain. He wasn't here when we came from the twins' room, and that was some time ago."

It was clear that losing at cards, perhaps especially to not-so-simple-as-he-seems Carran, had put quite a damper on Amery's humour. Leaving the cards where they lay, he unfolded himself off the floor and ambled over, plopping down beside Eddard without so much as a by-your-leave.

"You and Remya have a fight, Ed?" His voice was strangely serious, and though Eddard was still a bit wary, he knew there were good reasons he counted Amery among his closest friends. Besides, the only options now were speak or walk away, and he had no doubt that the squirrelly little bastard would just follow him anyway.

"No," he ground out, and wondered if talking about it might release some of this tension in his chest. He doubted he could feel worse, but he wasn't about to spill his guts in front of the other two. "It's not important. I'm going for a walk."

Just like that, he stood and stalked out— and, just as he'd expected, he'd barely made it to the end of the corridor when Amery loped up behind him, grabbing his elbow. "Whoa there, Big Ed. Tell me what's wrong."

Leaning against the wall, Eddard glanced around to make reasonably sure they didn't have an audience. "Well," he murmured. "First thing is you just called me _Big Ed_. Again. I think we've already established that that's wrong." Waving off the start of whatever explanation Amery would try to spin, Eddard continued just as quietly. "But, yes, there's something… difficult… going on with me and Remya."

Amery frowned, scratching behind his ear. "You want to talk about it?"

"That depends— can you be serious and bolt that trap of yours?" It wasn't exactly promising that Amery mimed locking his lips rather than just agreeing, but Eddard was getting a little desperate. "Fine. Good. It's just…" He glanced down the corridor again, trying to phrase his issue properly. "We haven't… been together yet, and tonight would be the perfect night to try, given that we're riding off into unknown danger in the morning, but I don't know how to ask her. I'm really, sickeningly nervous."

"Ed—" Amery was peering at him cockeyed now, obviously struggling for words. "You're not, I mean… You've been with a woman before, right?"

Tilting his head back against the stone wall, Eddard sighed. "Well yes, of course. I'm just the spare son of a bann, so I had a certain edge over your average farmhand, but I wasn't important enough for anyone to mind if I bedded half the milkmaids in the Bannorn. Not that I did, so don't even start, but I was younger and foolish, and none of those girls _meant_ anything except a bit of fun."

When Amery reached up and slapped his shoulder, Eddard flinched. "Oh you stupid sod, are you in love with the little ankle-biter?"

He couldn't help the way his expression darkened, and now it was Amery's turn to flinch, holding up his hands in apology. "I care about her a great deal. Anything else… it's too soon to say, and I certainly wouldn't tell _you_ something like that before I told her. Now just listen." Taking a deep breath, he leaned down closer to the other man's height. "I'm nervous because she's just so small, and I'd rather cut off my own arm than hurt her."

It was the Maker's own blessing that Amery actually seemed to be seriously considering his concern, because as foolish as he sometimes was, the man was just as brilliant as his brother and much bolder. Eddard waited for him to ruminate, praying his friend would come up with some useful advice based simply on the information he'd been given, and Eddard wouldn't have to explain the _other_ reason for his hesitance.

"Well," Amery said finally, scratching his head again. "Alistair's not a slight man, and he and the Commander seem to do all right. I've never actually known anyone else who's been with a dwarven woman, but it's not unheard of, or impossible obviously. They're supposed to be hardy, right?" Eddard realised belatedly that he'd allowed the other layer of his turmoil to show on his face when Amery crossed his arms and stared hard at him. "But you know that. What's the real problem, Ed?"

"I really shouldn't be talking to you about this," he whispered, but he couldn't postpone facing this problem any longer— not with this mysterious Joining ritual looming over them all. "But there's a reason I want to try this before we have to go to Orzammar. Remya, she didn't have an easy life before she was recruited, likely worse than she'll even tell me, but I get the sense that maybe any previous _experiences_ she's had were not… agreeable. I'm not trying to paint this as some selfless act of charity or anything— because I really, _really_ want to bed her— but wouldn't it be better to return to a place like that with some _good_ memories to sustain you? I just… I don't want to push her or, well, remind her."

"You won't Eddard." If he'd thought Amery had been serious before, this firm, almost angry tone was a new height of gravity. It was actually rather startling, and maybe a little humbling that his friend would have such a reaction to Eddard doubting himself about this. "You may have been younger and foolish before, but I've seen the way you look at her. She's a wonderful, deserving lass, and if I thought you weren't good enough for her I'd have told you before now, regardless of the sheer freakish bulk you've got over me. You both ought to be happy, for as long as we've got."

"I—" Eddard cleared his throat, surprised at the thick sound of his voice. "Thank you, Amery. You're quite a decent fellow, when you put your mind to it."

"Mmm. And Ambrose tells the dirtiest, filthiest jokes you've ever heard when he's been drinking. We've all got our little quirks."

* * *

As she'd hoped, Alistair and Zevran were both inside the larger bedroom— Alistair was cursing quietly, his whole arm jammed inside the top drawer of their armoire, while Zevran was placing familiar glass bottles carefully into the backpack lying open on the bed.

She smiled at the pair of them, cocking her head at Zevran when he glanced up at her arrival. "Keep those in a separate compartment from the acid flasks, would you? That could lead to quite a messy accident in a dark wagon."

He chuckled, tucking the last of the bottles away. "Or very slick, sensually scented darkspawn, yes? Somehow, that is almost more unpleasant to imagine." Buckling the pack closed, Zevran glided over and placed it carefully beside the small pile of bedrolls and other bags waiting by the door. Then his hands were on her, skimming down her ribs and around to cup her bottom, pulling her close.

"Ah!" Alistair finally freed his arm, clutching a rolled pair of socks, holding them high and proud like he'd just heroically snatched them from the jaws of a blight wolf. He turned to them, wiggling the socks about with a kind of insane joy. "Ah! Got 'em!"

She leaned her forehead against Zevran's chest, grinning. "Yes, my love. That's very good."

"These are lucky," Alistair continued, either oblivious to or ignoring the overly indulgent looks he was receiving. "I think Wynne enchanted them or something when she darned them for me. See, right there. Those stitches— doesn't that look like a rune? And now they never get a hole, and they never get soggy. It's _amazing_." It was only then that he seemed to notice the rather intimate position of his companions, and with a look of dawning comprehension he tossed the socks aside and pointed at her. "You're thinking something wicked, I can tell."

Wrapping her arms around Zevran's neck, she didn't even attempt to stifle her naughty expression or the arousal that sparked in her eyes. "That depends— is my bag packed, oh sweet and wonderful men?"

"But of course," Zevran drawled, squeezing her rear and shifting his hips in a way that sent a hot stab through her core. "We are your servants, my exquisite mistress."

"Then I am most definitely thinking something wicked. Something… delicious." Alistair had moved up beside them, and she nuzzled her face into his palm when he reached out to touch her hair. There was a growing heat in the room that had nothing to do with the flickering fire in the hearth.

* * *

Eddard wiped his palms against his trousers, feeling his heart start to hammer when the door to the girls' room opened and Amery slipped out, Keliani in tow. The pair of them shot him knowing glances— Keliani's with a definite undercurrent of warning— then they both padded down the corridor. Wiping his hands one more time, Eddard squared his shoulders and took the three yawning steps to the door.

He knocked softly. "Remya? May I come in?"

There was audible shuffling inside the room, a worrisome clatter and a curse, then Remya was yanking the door open with a warm, crooked smile that he was fairly certain was just for him. The sight of it lit something deep inside him (as did the soft-looking linen nightshirt hanging just to her knees, with bare legs beneath), and for a moment he completely forgot his apprehension. "You prowling about too, Ed? Guess nobody can sleep."

When she moved out of the way, he stepped inside, and before he could talk himself out of it he bent down— way down— and stole a kiss. Her hair was thick and damp against his questing fingers, like she'd just bathed, and _that_ thought was hardly conductive to him keeping his hands to himself. With monumental effort, he pulled away enough to smile back at her.

"Hello," he murmured, enjoying the flush creeping up her cheeks and the continually surprising shyness hiding deep in her moss-green eyes. She was always so brash and tough around everyone— the first time Eddard had complimented her, quietly and privately, she'd laughed in his face. Truly, courting this spitfire of a woman had been a lesson in patience, and not simply because she could be so very harsh. He realised once he'd gotten past those (admittedly thick) outer layers that she was also very fragile.

"Hello," she replied just as quietly, tracing the ties at his tunic's collar with one finger. Then she grazed his skin with the edge of her nail, and his breathing shuddered. Without saying another word, she closed the door and bolted it, then leaned into his arms when they came around her.

This wasn't the first time they'd been alone together like this, and Eddard always found it rather easier to simply scoop her up to his level rather than try to bow to hers. She was small, if more voluptuous than slender, and he was very strong. Holding her up in an embrace was no strain, especially when she slung her arms around the back of his neck and made soft, throaty little sounds.

He pressed her back against the door, and the support it offered allowed him to explore a bit as his mouth found hers again. One arm still around her, he slid his hand along the line of her jaw, groaning when she tilted her head into the touch and deepened the kiss. She tasted just slightly of savoury herbs (from supper, he thought), and under that like nothing but herself— smooth and sweet, like dark honey. He could feel the swells of her bosom pressing against his chest, the pressure of her legs (her bare legs, oh _Maker_) against his ribs, and he knew he had to stop this. If they were going to talk, he needed to get control of himself.

"Remya—" When he tried to break the kiss, she caught his bottom lip with her teeth. The feel of it, the slight sharpness, and he couldn't help his growl as his hips jerked roughly. Then just as quickly as he'd been caught, he was free and she was licking her own swollen lips coyly. "Maker's breath woman, you're going to drive me mad." Unwilling to lose the last shreds of his sense just yet, Eddard brushed his thumb across her unmarked cheek and searched for the words he needed. "Listen for a moment, please? I want to say this."

Her expression softened into something gentle and breathtaking, and if she hadn't been looking so expectant as well he would have tried to stay like that forever. "You are an incredible woman, Remya, and I… I've no idea what I've done to deserve you in my life. Yet, here you are."

He couldn't ask her this while he was pawing at her like a desperate boy— it felt cheap. Slowly, he stepped back from the door and set her gently on her feet, then he knelt. Cupping her tiny face with both hands, he shoved aside his jolt of nervousness at the reminder of their size difference. "I don't know how to say this without sounding like a lecher, but I… I want to stay with you tonight. Before we go to Orzammar, before you have to revisit that place, I want to show you what _being_ with someone is like when there's caring, and tenderness, and—"

"Yes." Even though her voice was firm, he saw the fear flickering ever so briefly across her face. "Stay, Ed."

Trying not to start panting, Eddard leaned his forehead against hers. It was time for all cards to be on the table, as it were. "Just so you know, I'm terrified." He was almost too close to look in her eyes properly, but he didn't want to back away. "Promise me you'll say if I hurt you. It's not— _none_ of it is supposed to hurt."

"Promise," she whispered, and his thumb traced over the scar that tugged her eye. He knew how she'd _told_ him she'd gotten it, and if the truth were any worse, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. It would hardly do for his first trip to Orzammar to turn into a mindless hunt for some foul villain through the alleys of some dwarven slum… although he'd never torn a man in half before. He imagined in this case it would be exceptionally satisfying.

* * *

"It will be some time before we see a proper bed again." She reached out and slid one hand up under the hem of Alistair's tunic, just as her other hand scratched lightly down the edge of Zevran's ear. "Do either of you have any especially athletic ideas you'd like to try? Or shall we just see what happens?"

Zevran laughed, a little breathlessly. "Oh _amora_, the things I could do to you. But we are to begin travelling tomorrow, and I truly would not wish to cause you discomfort."

Images of what that statement could mean flooded through her like magma, and she was tempted to insist on being _discomforted_… but then she reminded herself of the long, bumpy North Road that awaited them.

"I think I see your point, Zev." Still, temperance did not mean abstinence, and the mention of the strains of travel sent quite an idea spiralling around her mind and curling down to her belly. She licked her bottom lip. "Perhaps it is best if I don't exert myself unduly— certainly my dearest loves would be willing to save me and my poor muscles as much stress as possible?"

"Anything," Alistair breathed against her neck, leaning down to nuzzle behind her ear. "Your desire is my command."

Zevran was studying her closely now, a grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as he tried to guess at her meaning. "What is it to be then, my sweet? Shall Alistair and I perform for your entertainment?"

They truly didn't have all night— not if they were going to be in any fit state for travel the next morning— and despite the fun she could have had drawing out the speculation and the coy flirtation, her sense of duty pushed her to bluntness. "Now _that_ is an idea for another day. But no, for tonight… For tonight, my loves, tie me up and have your way with me."

* * *

Climbing up into Remya's bunk did not seem like the sturdiest, safest option, but he was too tall to manoeuvre in the bed below without risking a head wound— after a moment of indecision, he yanked the bottom mattress off its ropes and frame and onto the floor. It landed with a soft thud, and Remya was already scurrying up the ladder and tossing down her pillow and blanket.

He grabbed her around the waist and lifted her down, using the opportunity to catch her mouth in another kiss. She wrapped around him like a vine, and there was desperation in her movement that he'd never felt before. Her fingers were stroking through his hair, sliding then gripping, then sliding again as their tongues glided together in a steady, familiar rhythm. Kissing was something they'd become quite adept at— Eddard knew just how to flick his tongue against her palate, how to press his thumb under her ear as he cradled her head, and how far down her back his hand could stray before she tensed up.

Tonight his hand strayed farther, as he managed to lower them both to sit on the mattress without fumbling too much. When his fingers brushed across her bottom, the fingers in his hair tightened, and he gently broke away from their kiss.

"Is this all right?" He started tracing feather-light patterns in the small of her back, drifting slowly downward, then up again. He could feel the heat of her flesh through the fabric of her nightgown, and it literally made his mouth start to water, but he prepared himself to back off at the first hint of fear or objection.

"Yeah, just—" She shifted, and now she was _straddling_ _his thigh_, and oh merciful Andraste, her knee was pressing low against his stomach, but not low enough. He didn't recognize that his plan for cautiousness had been foiled until she gasped a very good gasp, and he realised he'd clamped down on her bottom like a drowning man clinging to shore. "Eddard," she breathed, tugging his head towards her neck. "Please."

Her skin tasted like soap, and when he allowed her to guide his lips along her throat, he found himself licking the curve of her breast far sooner than he would have ventured there. She wasn't silent for a moment, and the constant stream of pleasured sounds and curses and endearments set his blood afire. Her reactions were making him bold, and it wasn't especially far to travel down over her neckline to start mouthing one peaked nipple through a barrier of thin linen.

"Oh," she cried, and she sounded so surprised it made his chest ache. "That's— oh!"

As fetching as her nightgown might be, it did present a challenge to the slow, careful seduction angle. One garment from neck to knees, and no fasteners to slowly undo, no way to peel it gently away piece by piece— up and over was the only way to get it off, and he was hesitant to move that quickly.

Then, when her hands unclenched from his scalp and started plucking at the hem of his tunic, slipping underneath to graze the jumping muscles of his belly, up and over didn't seem so very quick. With great reluctance he tore his mouth away from her breast, trying not to be distracted by the clinging patch of dampness he'd left, and leaned back to yank his shirt off. She didn't help, but she did skim her hands and scrape her blunt nails over every exposed inch of skin, making him struggle and grunt.

He'd just freed his head when she thumbed his nipple, then her tongue was on him with a little bit of teeth, and the look on her face was so proud when he moaned, deep and low.

* * *

Trust Zevran to have silk scarves in abundance.

The fabric was strong and soft, and of course the man knew how to tie them in such a way that it didn't even bite in to her flesh when she tried to buck and thrash— something she'd been doing rather desperately since Alistair's attention had shifted from making her vision go blurry to kissing the inside of her thigh. She wanted to wrap her legs around his shoulders, pull him back to where she _needed_ him, but she couldn't even bend her knees.

"Please," she snarled with a ferocity that made it more a demand than a plea, and lifted her hips as high as she could, which was barely at all. They'd shoved a pillow under her bum, and that added height curved her spine and severely limited her range of motion. "Damn you, Zev!"

Glancing up from his meandering exploration of every inch of her breasts except the hardened, begging peaks, Zevran pouted. "Tsk tsk, beloved. This was not_ my_ idea." Almost quicker than she could follow, his tongue flickered out and dampened one rosy nipple before retreating. She gasped painfully, barely aware as her sweat began to sting her eyes.

"Alistair," Zevran called out, quite conversationally. "Come here and let me taste her on you." The bulk of Alistair's form shifting up over her hips, brushing against her flesh in absolutely maddening ways, made her whine pitifully. The ensuing kiss between her men was _torture_— all teeth and groaning and grasping hands, and all of it happening right over her prone, helpless body.

Twisting her neck, she buried half her face in a pillow and screamed into the muffling goose down. Before she'd had the chance to take a breath, there were fingers sliding in exactly where she needed them, moving in tempo with the pulse beating through her, and all she could manage was a strangled hiccup of relief.

She felt them move, the mattress shifting around her, but she didn't care so long as no one stopped what they were doing. She strained to move against the hand doing marvellous things, until suddenly there was more than a hand and she was able to raise her head enough to see Zevran leaning down just before he started kissing and licking, and she bowed up with a gasp as Alistair moved into position.

There was pressure and heat and thickness, and before Alistair even started moving she was shuddering and twitching as the world narrowed. Somewhere on the edges of awareness, she thought she heard Zevran say something about keeping score, but then Alistair's hips were snapping, Zevran's mouth was occupied, and she was almost overwhelmed by the continued stimulation.

* * *

When Eddard resolved to let this night progress entirely at Remya's pace, he'd been thinking of the dark flutter deep in her eyes when she was reminded of Orzammar, and the gentleness she deserved after a lifetime of brutality. What he hadn't really considered was her otherwise pushy, impatient personality.

He'd expected to spend longer just kissing, moving slowly into touching, under clothing, across bare flesh, and he would worship her. There _was_ kissing and lots of it, but most of their clothes were abandoned far sooner than he'd imagined— not that he was complaining— and before he really knew what was happening, she had him flat on his back with her sweet, supple breasts and all the rest of her creamy skin pressed against him.

"Andraste's mercy," he breathed, sliding his hands down her bare sides until they rested comfortably on her generous hips. In what seemed like a very deliberate move, if her smirk were anything to go by, Remya brushed her leg over the bulge in his increasingly uncomfortable trousers. "Ah, _damn_ it woman—"

The fingers she had tangled in his hair tightened, and she shifted up to whisper in his ear. "Just so you know," she said slowly, and with an audible quaver. "I'm terrified."

"Hey," he murmured, curling one arm up around her back. "It's all right." Gently, he rolled over until they were both lying on their sides, then pulled back just enough to see her face. Her cheeks were flushed to dark rose, and he watched with some concern as nervousness and arousal fought for supremacy across her faltering expression.

She was avoiding his gaze, staring blindly at some spot on his pillow, but she did stroke her hand tenderly over his jaw and neck as she spoke. "I trust you, Ed. I know you wouldn't hurt me on purpose. I… well, it's been a long time since I'd say that about anyone." He had a thousand things to say, mostly thanks and reassurance, but she wasn't finished. He mentally bit his tongue and stamped down his arousal when she finally looked at him, determined and with no small amount of passion. "Let me see you, giant."

There wasn't an opportunity to ask if she was sure, to offer comfort, or the promise that he only wanted to go as far as she felt secure— her small, dexterous hands were sliding down his stomach, scorching a path as they went, and then slipping under his trousers and smallclothes. Growling fiercely at the sudden touch, Eddard's hips stuttered as Remya encircled him and squeezed. The astonished, hungry light in her eyes was flattering and enflaming in equal measure.

He struggled briefly with his final pieces of clothing, but then he was free, and Remya was still making his breath hitch as she explored the new revelation. She was silent, and he tried his damnedest to stay still under her ministrations, but he was only a mortal man. Finally, when she lightly scraped the pad of one calloused finger up from root to tip, he couldn't take it anymore.

He touched her smooth belly, straying lower when she made a small, encouraging sound. He purposefully caught her eye just before he glided his fingers carefully against the velvet warmth of her. "May I?"

He'd been with enough women, some of them quite experienced and eager to educate, that he had an idea of where and how to touch. When she cried out in surprise and pleasure, he sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Maker that dwarven women seemed to be built in a familiar fashion. Taking her enthusiastic reaction as encouragement, Eddard guided her to lie on her back, keeping his fingers busy as he began his journey from tasting the salty skin at the side of her throat, all the way down. He'd make sure she was utterly lost in joy; he'd give her better memories.

* * *

She'd lost track of how many times she peaked… eventually, it all started to flow together anyway.

Everything felt soft. The bed under her back, the wisps of silk still clinging but untied, the slow caresses of the men beside her. Her core jolted and ached at the memory of Alistair's attentions, and the salty and slightly sweet taste of Zevran still lingered at the very back of her tongue. Soft touches trailed across her stomach, and soft lips played gently against her throat and ear.

Tonight, she had not been the one in control. She had not been the one giving commands.

There were no life or death decisions tonight. For a brief respite, things could be simple, and warm, and full of bliss.

Tonight, once more before the storm, she could be soft.

* * *

_AN: All right, so I've been a little distracted from writing, but I'll try to keep things a little more timely from now on. ME2 grabbed some of my attention, and hasn't seemed willing to let up yet._

_I'm going to try and give each recruit at least part of a chapter for their own POV, like Eddard here. It's fun for me, and I hope enjoyable for you to get inside their heads. As always, thank you for reading, and especially if you choose to review._

_Oh, and I almost forgot to tell you. I played around with the character creator and a little bit of photoshop, and I made the recruits as I see them (mostly). If you're interested, I've put up some screencaps. Just click the link in my profile._


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, it was quite apparent that none of them had slept as soundly as they should have. Still, even rumpled and bleary, her recruits were obedient and quick about their tasks— personal gear was loaded and the wagon was rumbling over the frosty North Road before breakfast had even settled in her stomach.

She pulled her cloak a little tighter around herself, glad for the layer of wool and fur, and for the always-surprising warmth provided by her drakeskin leathers. Carran, sitting beside her on the bench with the wagon's reins in hand, was humming softly to himself.

When a simple flick of his wrist slowed the horses' gait over a patch of icy slush, she shook her head with a bit of wonder. "I'm glad one of us can handle these beasts, Carran."

He shrugged, smiling modestly and wiping at his reddened nose. "Ah, it's not so different from oxen, ma'am. And they're mighty fine horses anyway." The road ran out relatively straight before them, and Carran allowed his eyes to stray over and meet hers. "They've got more speed, of course, so I've just got to keep an eye they don't decide to use it. We're lucky you found someone to give them a bit of training before now— a saddle and a wagon are very different things."

"So I would imagine." She was still wary of the animals, and not simply because they were huge and foreign. They just seemed so… flighty. Give her the solid bulk of a bronto any day, even with their notoriously short tempers. "I thought they might be most useful to us as draft animals."

Ambrose, striding along on the wagon's left side with his brother, barked out a laugh. "The Orlesians would be having kittens if they knew, Commander."

Amery pulled a snooty expression, turning to walk backwards for a few steps. "Zee horses, zey were a geeeft, but..."

She wouldn't allow herself more than a slight curl to the corner of her lips at the ridiculous impression. "Right, that's enough. The Orlesian Wardens deserve your respect, Amery." Even if the ones she'd met were _miles_ too priggish, and had a tendency to fall into patronisation too easily.

"Yes, Commander. Sorry." Falling back in line easily, Amery slung one arm over his brother's shoulders. "Amby and I only ever met one Orlesian, and he tried to have me hanged for stealing. I may be biased."

She raised one brow, asking the silent question, but it was Ambrose who continued. "A crime that, shockingly, he hadn't actually committed. The trader accidentally left his purse at the village tavern, and some of the older folk had decided to divide it out as _war reparations_. It was a good leather purse, though, so when we found it being kicked around the tavern floor, we took it."

Snorting in a way that was mostly amused and perhaps slightly bitter, Amery sent some loose stones into a small bank of snow with the toe of his boot. "Hardly matters now. My neck's firmly un-stretched."

"I'm glad," Carran said simply and without a hint of sarcasm, his gaze fixed back on the road before them, and it was clear there was no addendum.

"Uh, thanks Car." Amery sounded a bit surprised at the honest sentiment, dropping his arm from around his twin and hooking his thumbs in his belt. "You're a mate."

It was snowing lightly, not enough to really bother anything, and if the weather held then they'd likely make it to the Circle Tower in a few days. Travelling the North Road was quicker and safer than trekking through the deeper Bannorn, where bandits and the rare darkspawn stragglers were still an occasional hazard. After the Joining, she'd have to take the recruits— the _Wardens_— down for a proper purge.

She wasn't nearly so confident in her balance yet to try and stand while the wagon was moving, but she did lean around the canvas and glance back at the rest of her trailing brood.

"How goes it, recruits?" Not shockingly, she received mostly unenthusiastic grumbles in response, but they'd been travelling for the better part of the morning, and the road they trudged over was wet and slick. Noticing that even Alistair was looking rather cranky, she touched Carran's shoulder. "Pull us over, Carran. Let's stop for lunch."

They had simple rations for midday meals, although the biscuits and cured meat were quite a step up in quality from the hardtack she and her former company had been able to afford and carry during their quest. They also hadn't had a cook packing their supplies during that adventure, and it made for a nice change.

Alistair was munching on one of the surprisingly fluffy biscuits that he'd sandwiched around a hunk of white cheese, leaning against the side of the wagon next to where she stood, stretching her legs. She slapped his hand lightly when he tried to steal a strip of dried beef from the dwindling pile she had balanced on the wagon's edge. "Don't make me bite a finger off, you bottomless pit."

Feigning terror, Alistair clutched his hand to his chest and widened his eyes. "But my love—"

She narrowed her eyes, purposefully picking up the last of her lunch to remove temptation. "Don't even start, _my love_. You've been spoiled, sneaking food from the kitchens at all hours. We're lucky we left the dogs behind, or we'd be out of supplies before we passed Soldiers' Peak."

Popping the last bite of biscuit into his mouth, Alistair crossed his arms sullenly. "You're a cruel, cruel woman," he mumbled around the crumbs, but it was loud enough that Zevran laughed as he sauntered around the wagon's corner. The elf had been scouting ahead for the majority of their trip thus far, and the solitude apparently agreed with his lecherous tendencies, if his wicked expression were anything to go by.

"Does a little cruelty not make you burn for her, Alistair?" Crowding quite close, Zevran ran his hand surreptitiously under her cloak, up the side of her thigh and over her hip. His touch was firm enough that she felt it through her leathers, and she growled softly as a flush crawled up her neck to her cheeks.

"I'm not the only one spoiled," Alistair drawled, watching them with obvious interest quirking his lips. "No quiet corners to sneak off to— just the road and the recruits. Zevran might have an apoplexy."

Glancing over, Zevran favoured Alistair with a long, suggestive kind of scrutiny. "Don't test me, _cariño. _Or do, if you like, and we'll see how long you can keep your composure."

"By the Stone, Alistair—" She sighed, half amusement and half exasperation. "Whatever happens now, you've brought it on yourself."

* * *

Alistair stared purposefully into the fire, quietly trying to slip into the calming exercises he remembered from his templar training. He was a pool of still water. He was a steady flame. He wasn't going to let Zevran win.

"Why my dear Alistair," Zevran purred, leaning as close as possible on their deadfall seat— he was close enough that all Alistair could smell was spice and leather, warmed by the heat of the fire and overwhelming him. "What have I done to deserve be ignored so _cruelly_? Have I not been your dutiful servant this evening?"

_Dutiful servant_— Alistair clenched his jaw. During the rest of their uneventful day of travel he'd almost forgotten his off-handed comment at midday, but Zevran had certainly seemed determined to remind him since they'd made camp for the night. Lewd looks, not-so-subtle remarks that sent bolts of heat through him, and fleeting touches that were obviously designed to break his will. The recruits, for the most part, seemed to think it was hilarious. Zevran was a consummate flirt, and a tease, and a _bastard_— Maker help him, he needed to focus.

No, most of the recruits didn't seem perturbed by the relentless teasing Alistair had been suffering for hours. They likely thought it was all simply Zevran being Zevran, unless the three of them had been so obvious that the change in their relationship was old news. Alistair was far beyond caring.

And there _she_ was, sitting a little farther down their shared log-bench, smirking like the wicked woman he knew her to be. He'd find no help from that front, he knew, but at least she wasn't actively assisting with his torture.

He'd worn his dragonbone splint mail for the journey, enjoying the lightness and the flexibility it offered after a few months puttering about in his old veridium set. His doublet and undershirt cut most of the cold from reaching his covered skin, so he was relatively comfortable in that regard, but after all Zevran's… _attentions,_ he was distinctly uncomfortable in a very specific way. Maybe it was good that his armour hid the most grievous evidence of how easy it was for the elf to rile him— because wouldn't his raging hardness just send the brood into giggling fits, the heartless fiends— but he was starting to squirm with the incessant throbbing.

"Alistair." Zevran's voice was quiet, barely audible over the blood pounding in Alistair's head. "Even if you lose this game, would that truly be so terrible? I can feel the tension in you, and I am sure I could help relieve that… any way you'd like."

Carefully keeping his eyes fixed on the fire, Alistair unclenched the fists he'd unconsciously balled up. "So says the cause of the tension," he grumbled softly, very aware of their audience, and barely stopped his hips from twitching when Zevran chuckled against his ear.

"Ah, but the lady spoke rightly, my friend. You brought this on yourself."

He wasn't some blushing virgin anymore. He was a man, and in a relationship that many people would likely class as _out of the ordinary_. He didn't have to be the prey here. Zevran was right— even if he _lost_, he could definitely still win.

Flitting his gaze up, he shot Zevran a look out of the corner of his eye. Finally on the receiving end of some attention, the elf smirked triumphantly, but Alistair just smirked right back.

"I did," he agreed easily, keeping his voice light so as not to spring the trap even a moment too early. This would only be a proper victory if Zevran were completely surprised. "But then again, so did you."

The fact that Zevran was nearly in his lap already made it all the easier to scoop his lithe, wiry body and sling him over one shoulder. Alistair clamped his arm firmly over the backs of Zevran's thighs to discourage kicking, and growled a clear warning as he got smoothly to his feet.

"Zevran, if you wiggle I'll drop you right on your smart mouth." Ignoring the startled looks he was receiving from the few recruits sitting across the fire, Alistair turned to face one very amused dwarf. "If you'll excuse me, Commander, I've got to attend to a few things."

She waved her hand casually. "Of course. Carry on."

"_What?_" Heedless of the warning he'd received, Zevran started struggling and squawking, though only half-heartedly. "_Mi amora_, please—"

"Not my problem," she interjected, the words sounding almost lyrical with fiendish delight. "Both of you deserve this."

Holding his cargo tightly, Alistair strode purposefully towards the edge of camp and the shadowed bulk of the wagon. In the course of the short trip, Zevran had transitioned from actively struggling to a roundabout way of securing his freedom— more blatant suggestions.

"Such a view is utterly unfair when the prize is armoured," he complained, then Alistair felt something slap his arse hard enough to tingle. Not about to be outdone after his recent display, Alistair slid his hand purposefully up the back of Zevran's thigh, revelling in the surprised moan he received for his efforts.

Straining just a bit under the weight of his now much less reluctant captive, Alistair grabbed hold of one of the wagon's support beams and hoisted them both up and inside. It was dark, and cramped with supplies that had shifted about during their journey, but too much effort would be required to find and light a lantern, set up their bedrolls, or do anything besides toss Zevran down in the nearest empty space.

He was already kneeling, and a quick swipe of his hand assured Alistair that he wouldn't crack the elf's skull open or anything so dramatic. With a grunt he heaved the familiar, sinewy body off his shoulder and onto the floor. Zevran wheezed when he landed hard on his back, Alistair's arm cushioning his head from the impact. It was apparent that he caught his breath quickly when he started cursing, but Alistair was already crawling forward, sliding one knee firmly between Zevran's thighs.

"Are you all right?" he asked quietly, aware that the sincerity of his concern was overshadowed a bit by the raw need roughening his voice— but whose fault was _that_?

"I am fine for a sack of potatoes, you beast," Zevran growled, and Alistair flinched just slightly when a hand suddenly gripped the back of his neck. "Now get down here."

There were grasping hands, flailing limbs, and much more cursing, but eventually they were skin to skin, though Alistair's ankles were still tangled up in trousers and smallclothes. Zevran's fingers were biting sharply into the flesh of his arse, urging him to jerk his hips faster, harder, just _there_—

Alistair lost his balance, all his weight crashing onto Zevran's chest, when something yanked the last clinging vestiges of clothing off his feet. Zevran grunted, shifting around to manoeuvre Alistair onto his side, and glared at the dwarf climbing inside the wagon.

When Alistair reached out to caress his shoulder, Zevran shrugged him off. "I am feeling rather abused, my darlings, and not in a way I prefer." There was little heat in the complaint, and Alistair pulled the sullen man close again, this time with Zevran's back cradled against his front. "Am I now bruised enough to slake your revenge, _amora_?"

Tossing Alistair's trouser aside, she seemed to seriously consider the question, biting her bottom lip as she tied the canvas flap of the wagon closed behind herself. Alistair had been long enough in the wagon that his eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and he watched intently as she began to unbuckle her own leathers. Despite the interruption, he was still very _interested_, and a gentle grope assured him Zevran was as well.

"_I'm _sorry I squished you," he murmured, flicking his wrist in time with his slow grinding against Zevran's trim hip. The gasp he received in response was encouraging; as was the demanding kiss he was suddenly caught up in when Zevran craned his neck around.

She sighed deeply, tossing drakeskin aside and shimmying out of her breeches. "And here I was, hoping the pair of you would be torturing each other." It was challenging, but Alistair managed to keep one eye on her even while Zevran wriggled backwards, seating himself snugly in Alistair's lap. Suddenly there was a beautiful man in his lap and a breathtaking woman stripping down past her smallclothes only an arm's reach away, and Alistair was staggered by his sheer good luck.

* * *

"Holy Maker…" Amery whispered breathily, gawking after their distinguished commander as she sauntered off in the direction of the shadowed, _occupied_ wagon. After the incident between Alistair and Zevran, she'd barely reacted at all, remaining nonchalantly by the fire long enough to assign watch shifts and evening duties in no great hurry. She'd acted as if absolutely nothing untoward had just occurred, was likely occurring _as she spoke_, and the recruits had managed to keep their shock confined to blatant staring.

Then she'd smiled, a slow curl at the corners of her mouth, and for the first time Ambrose caught a glimpse of the woman behind the Commander. Certainly, she was always striking to look at, with sharp sea-green eyes and bold, crisp features, but she was more a force of nature than a person. Rather embarrassingly, Ambrose had found himself glancing quickly away when her surprising expression stirred something wholly inappropriate deep in his gut.

His brother's elbow jabbing into his ribs brought Ambrose firmly out of his musings. "You saw that, right? I mean, _everyone_ saw what just happened?"

"We saw, Amery," Keliani assured him, sitting close to the fire as she stretched her healing elbow in the heat. Her hair was down from its usual tight knot, falling in glossy black waves around her neck, and _there_ was another woman Ambrose couldn't risk watching for too long. Andraste's flaming sword, he was getting as bad as Amery.

"I think I'm owed some coin," Remya added, grinning saucily as she shuffled closer to where Eddard was standing. When one broad hand came around her shoulders and pulled her smaller body against his legs, Ambrose noticed her grin flicker into something softer.

Amery was still gaping like a fish, but at the mention of debt he seemed to shake off his stupor, furrowing his brow in a way that reminded Ambrose rather unpleasantly of their father. "You bet the Commander was bedding the pair of them, _separately_, not that Alistair and Zevran were rutting. And anyway, that whole experience might have been some mass delirium brought on by a long day of travel. We can't be sure."

Crossing her arms and leaning against the mountainous man beside her, Remya shook her head. "You could go check, salroka. See how well Zevran's stealth training stuck in that cavernous skull of yours."

"Oh, do it Amery," Rimon piped up, gathering the supper dishes he and Leofric had been charged with washing up once the pot of snow they'd just set near the fire melted into warm water. "And I'll swear I'll pay you twice what you lost to Remya. Every coin I've got."

"I'll match it." Eddard smirked, making a show of jingling the purse dangling from his belt. "Maker, you'll be in money, even after that debacle with the cards last night."

Carran rocked back on his heels, whistling a long stream of breath into the chilly air. "Nah, you didn't see how much he lost after you left, Ed. Keliani can really bluff." Leofric chuckled in agreement, and Amery glared daggers at the lot of them.

"Sod off, you hateful pricks. Some bloody comrades in arms, trying to get me killed for your own perverted curiosity." Ambrose shrugged noncommittally when his brother shot him a look begging for help, and after drawing out the stalemate another moment or two, Amery sullenly yanked his purse open. "Fine. Blasted fucking _arse_."

After that tasteful outburst Amery started counting out copper bits, just as Soren trudged back from his visit to the privy trench, looking slightly ashen in the flickering light. Despite the tension between them, Remya looked somewhat worried for her fellow dwarf, and that alone peaked Ambrose's concern. Amery, engrossed in his slow separation from his beloved coin, heard the crunch of footsteps and spared only a fleeting glance.

"Soren, mate, you missed it." Handing the small pile of money to Ambrose (as usual, since Amery claimed it was easier to lose money when he wasn't actually the one giving it away), Amery finally noticed Soren's sickly pallor. "Ah, you all right? You look like shit."

Unsurprisingly gruff, the dwarf merely grunted as he took a few more lurching steps to sit heavily on the deadfall the Commander had so recently vacated. "No worse than you, and tomorrow I'll feel better," he said with an undercurrent of his typical dry humour. Soren wasn't an unlikable fellow, if you could stand the occasional obstinacy and the bouts of bad temper. Really, it wasn't any worse than dealing with Amery day-in and day-out. "What is it I missed?"

"Amery losing his shirt," Ambrose replied before his brother could start spinning a tale, pulling himself to his feet and passing the coins to Remya's waiting hands. "And confirmation that the Commander's bedding Zevran too— all amicable. Harmonious, really."

Flinching when a mound of snow smashed against his back, Ambrose turned to find Amery wiping his hands on his cloak and scowling at him. "Couldn't tell a story if I wrote it for you Amby, I swear."

If anything, the news made Soren go even paler under his enviable beard (Ambrose had tried to grown one once, and managed to keep the sad, scraggily thing for a fortnight before he realised it emphasised his scars more than it hid them). Not precisely known for his subtlety, Soren's disgusted expression quickly dampened the campsite's previous humour, and after a long, tense silence, Ambrose couldn't hold his tongue anymore.

"Have a problem, Soren?" He'd done his very best to keep his tone neutral, but he got a sour look for his trouble anyway. Bloody, pigheaded dwarf.

Planting his thick hands firmly on his knees, Soren huffed out a furious sigh. "It's not right, not _done_. None of you could understand."

"Maker's holy balls, Soren," Amery snapped, too loudly. "Pull that stick out of your arse before you rupture something. It's not like they're going to order you to join in."

Ambrose took note when Soren's knuckles went white, and prepared himself for the familiar experience of having his mouthy brother's back when the brawl started. Thankfully, Soren simply snorted scornfully and shifted his angry stare to the fire.

"There is a _responsibility_," he muttered, sounding almost ashamed. "The Commander is a woman of good blood, from a noble House restoring itself. Even if she's gone sun-touched, it's no excuse for shirking her duty, especially not dallying with tall folk."

"You're as thick as the Stone that shit you out, you nug licking gasbag—" Ambrose actually jumped when Remya started shouting, and by the look on Eddard's face he wasn't entirely certain the big man wanted to hold her back. "The Commander did her duty when she saved that pisshole you call a kingdom from collapsing into its own stinking corruption. And what about _your_ duty? I don't see a pack of arse-faced little whelps nipping at your heels—"

Now Soren was on his feet, suddenly so red-faced he looked like he might burst. "Don't you _dare_ speak to me of duty, brand! The Stone got stronger the day you slithered up to the surface, and no half-breed monstrosity you squeeze out could ever change that—"

Eddard's hand, the one that had been gently gripping Remya's shoulder, now pulled her out of the way as he moved forward. His deep, even voice was as cold as Ambrose had ever heard it. "Step back Soren, or I'll put you down."

Soren visibly bristled at the challenge, while Remya was still spitting mad, struggling against Eddard's iron hold and snarling. "Let me go, you sodding giant! I'll cut his fucking tongue out and make him _eat_ it!"

"Stop it, the three of you," Keliani barked, rising to her own feet. In fact, every one of them was standing by that point, and the air was thick with hostility. "This is disgraceful behaviour!"

Running his hands over his hair in a gesture of complete frustration, Soren bellowed a wordless, enraged sound. "I told you, none of you can possibly understand—"

"What in the blighted pit is going on?" Every one of them, woman and man, froze stock-still. The look of hard fury on the Commander's face was utterly terrifying, and Ambrose had never wanted to be elsewhere more desperately in his entire life. She strode into the light of the fire like the Maker's own wrath, dressed in her leather breeches and what looked like one of Zevran's sleeveless undershirts, untucked and hanging down to her thighs. Ambrose almost winced when he noticed she was barefoot in the snow, but he didn't dare move a muscle. "Someone _will_ answer me. Now."

"A disagreement, Commander." The strength in Keliani's voice made Ambrose embarrassed by his own fear, and also sent a bolt of heat through him. She wasn't cowering very much at all, although her hands were clenched tight together behind her back, and she even managed to meet the Commander's unyielding stare. "I apologise that things got carried away."

"Not good enough." Now Alistair and Zevran were tramping out of the shadows as well, both equally underdressed (although they did have their boots on), and Ambrose felt the breath he'd been holding shudder out. Zevran's expression had none of his usual mischievousness or good humour, and Ambrose was reminded starkly that this elf was a merciless assassin. And Alistair— Ambrose had expected confusion, perhaps disappointment, but not this flinty mask of barely controlled outrage. It was like a punch to the gut.

The Commander shot the new arrivals a weighty look, and the two men stayed silent, looming at the edge of the firelight. Then she turned her attention to Remya, whose eyes were glittering shockingly. Of any of them, she was the last Ambrose would have thought he'd ever see crying. "Remya, tell me what happened."

The usually vibrant little woman shrugged Eddard's hand from her shoulder and stepped forward, staring blindly at the snow near the Commander's feet. "Soren got me riled, ma'am," she replied, her voice thick but her words clear. "I got mad and stupid, and things got loud. I should've known better, kept my temper in check. I'm sorry."

When the Commander's expression darkened even further, Ambrose managed to think of one place worse than standing where he was— in Soren's skin.

"Soren." No matter how much of an arsehole the dwarf might be sometimes, Ambrose wouldn't have wished that tone of voice on anyone. This was a woman who'd raised an army with nothing but her own strength to back her, who massacred darkspawn like a normal person killed ants, and who'd slain a bloody archdemon. Ambrose squeezed his own hands into fists when they started trembling.

Gazing straight ahead, Soren's posture was painfully rigid. "Yes, Commander."

The Commander, on the other hand, was fluid and deadly in her grace as she turned to face him. "I thought you and I had an understanding, Soren. You left your caste behind when you were recruited. You assured me I would never be forced to have this discussion with you again."

"Yes, Commander. I apologise." Ambrose couldn't see the Commander's reaction, except the brief flexing of her fingers as they hung loosely by her sides.

"Soren, look at me." A flicker of tawny brown eyes, and Soren did. Ambrose tried hard to swallow over the dryness in his mouth. "Listen very carefully: this will never happen again. There will not be a third chance. I speak now as your Commander, and also as your Paragon." Both Soren and Remya had tried to explain that title to him, but Ambrose wasn't entirely certain he understood the implications. If what they'd told him was accurate, the Commander was some kind of infallible god among the dwarves. It certainly wouldn't surprise him.

"Paragon," Soren murmured, and the word seemed to hold equal parts reverence and misery. There was a collective intake of breath when the Commander stepped forward and placed one hand on his chest, just over where Ambrose assumed dwarven hearts were as well, but she simply touched him firmly.

"Yes, I am your Paragon. Chosen by the Assembly, and supported by the King. Soren, you are a proud son of Orzammar, a warrior of superior skill, and a good man, but if you disregard this final warning I will cut you down myself without hesitation." She must have moved her hand, because suddenly Soren stumbled back a step, but it all happened too quickly to really follow. "Now get to your tent and don't come out until your watch shift."

Nodding sharply, Soren marched across the short distance without another word and crawled inside his tent. Even as a sliver of tension bled away after Soren's retreat, the Commander was whipping about to face all of them again, still obviously in a less than pleasant mood.

"No more," she ordered, jabbing her finger towards them. "We are travelling through the land I am sworn to protect— a land in which our Order's presence is still tenuous. You will all behave like _adults_, and more importantly like Grey Wardens. When I recruited you, I expected better than this."

Even though his involvement in the argument had been minimal, Ambrose felt like she'd cut the legs out from under him. Biting back a useless apology, he watched as she, Alistair and Zevran walked silently back to the wagon. The bile in the back of his throat was bitter and hot.

"Ah, damn it," Amery said quietly when it was likely the trio was out of earshot. Needing some familiar support himself, Ambrose stepped near and slipped his arm around his brother's shoulders. "Damn it," he said again, leaning into the hold.

It wasn't surprising when Eddard and Remya disappeared somewhere shortly thereafter, likely to one of their tents, and the six of them who remained quickly got to their chores, or simply sat quietly. They were all shaken, and perhaps it would have been better to grab whatever sleep they could, but it seemed none of them wanted to be alone just yet.

Ambrose poked at the glowing coals with a thin stick, taking some small pleasure when he managed to make them pop and hiss. Tomorrow would be a new day— one day closer to the real challenge. One day closer to being Grey Wardens, when Da had always told them they'd be lucky to shovel shit for the rest of their lives. They'd managed something great, him and his wonderful bastard of a brother, but now life was serious. More serious even than staying out of gaol and avoiding the angry fathers of sweet young lasses, which had been central concerns of theirs for several years. This was more serious than anything they'd ever done.

Amery was sitting close, making sleepy sounds as he rested his head on Ambrose's shoulder, and if the question hadn't seemed so bloody important Ambrose wouldn't have bothered him. Slowly, he turned his head so that his cheek pressed against Amery's frizzy hair, keeping his voice to barely a whisper. "Are you glad we're here, brother?"

"Hm?" Amery lifted one hand and rubbed his nose idly, but Ambrose knew he was honestly considering his answer. "Yeah, brother, I am. You?"

In the stillness of the camp, Ambrose could feel another heartbeat thumping against his arm. It was perfectly in tandem with the rhythm in his own chest.

He smiled, despite the dark and the danger awaiting them. "Yeah."

* * *

_AN: Currently putting finishing touches on a Zevran/Fem!Surana fic I've been working on, and a Garrus/Fem!Shep for ME2. Hopefully I'll have them up within a day or two, if you're interested. Thank you for reading!_


	8. Chapter 8

A few more days of slogging along the North Road, and she was seriously reconsidering her choice of route. It may have meant nearly another week of travel, but according to Alistair the southern roads would have been drier.

"Drier yes, but then you'd be squealing about freezing your bum off the whole time." Alistair glanced up at her as he leaned into the wagon, pausing his rummage through one of their supply crates. "Dry and wickedly cold. At least this way, you've less time to sulk— _suffer_. I meant suffer… with great fortitude and strength of will."

Huddled inside the wagon changing her sopping wet socks, she considered hurling a bedroll at his head, just hard enough to knock his smirk off, but settled for kicking her soggy boots aside and crawling close. "You're a terribly funny man, you know that?"

Snatching up a small sack of cornmeal, Alistair stepped back warily. "Oh, I know. You usually think it's adorable." Lifting one brow, his smirk widened. "And rather attractive. If I wasn't so sure you were about to bite my head off, I'd remind you."

"Get over here," she snarled, but he scampered away a few steps before she could launch herself at him and demand to be carried back to the fire. Holding up the cornmeal, he wiggled it at her.

"I'm helping make supper, like the responsible Warden I am. I've got no time for your tomfoolery." This time she didn't resist the urge, but he managed to step out of the way of the boot that flew towards his chest. It squelched as it landed toe-first in a pile of muddy slush, and she cursed loudly. Rolling the burlap sack carefully back and forth in his hands, Alistair bobbed his head at the sodden boot. "That'll never dry like that. We've been over this, love."

She had no hope of reaching the damn thing now without getting her feet wet again, but she stretched desperately out of the wagon anyway. "Oh, give it back you despicable _bastard_—"

"Are you really in the best position for name calling?" She couldn't even look at him, or she'd throw the other boot. "I'll get it for you, but only if you promise me something."

Sagging in defeat, she breathed slowly through her nose a few times to compose herself. "Promise you what?"

"Promise me you'll try to relax, just a little." Suddenly things were serious, and she sat up with a small frown, allowing him to approach without making any sort of fuss. When he leaned against the wagon, she touched the back of his hand gently.

"What do you mean? I think— I thought I was doing fine." She hadn't meant to sound offended, but when he brushed some hair away from her cheek, she realised she actually was a little upset. "I have responsibilities, Alistair."

"I know that." To his credit, Alistair did not rise to the confrontational tone, keeping his own voice soft and level. She reined herself in sharply; he loved her, and he was concerned. "Just hear me out. You've never served in an Order like this before, a brotherhood of equals. These Wardens are our family, my love, and you're allowed to be a person around them. You're _allowed_ to have a bit of fun here and there."

"I tried that, and they nearly tore each other apart. Or do you not remember?" He chuckled quietly, still touching her hair.

"See, this is why I needed the boot for leverage. I knew you'd be tetchy about this." She opened her mouth to snap at him again, but closed it when he met her eyes knowingly. "Promise you'll trust me."

"That's not fair," she groused. "I trust you with my life." When all he did was look intently at her, waiting, she collapsed under the weight of his silent reassurance. She'd been raised to be a leader among followers, and there was a certain comfort in distancing herself from those followers. Especially when she anticipated killing some of them in the near future, either with poison or her blade.

She remembered fondly what it was like to be part of a company of friends, and perhaps that _was_ possible to achieve with her recruits. When she'd travelled with Duncan for that short time, he'd been sociable with his fellow Wardens, only separating himself as a commander when the need arose. At the time, she'd thought the swarthy human embodied the exact kind of balanced leader she would have wanted to become.

Despite her exile, she was a leader again— officially, politically, and in the minds of these future Wardens. It was unexpected, and somehow she'd allowed Duncan's example to slip from her memory. These young men and women were different than the motley crew she'd built to defeat the Blight, but she didn't need to be a hardnosed Commander at every moment.

Lazy evenings with Leliana, listening to romantic tales that sounded foreign in their very structure and having her hair braided into ridiculous desgins. Taking the time to break through Morrigan's harsh exterior, to find a fierce friend deep inside. Spending time in the shroud of Wynne's tranquillity, letting the wisdom sink into her bones. Discussing philosophy and honour with Sten, and revelling in every small glance that meant she'd earned another sliver of respect from the pigheaded giant. Sharing a drink with Oghren, and knowing that in some small ways, the impossible sot understood her more completely than even Alistair could. Befriending one of her people's most legendary weapons, and learning to care deeply for the incredibly brave woman within.

Allowing a foolish, courageous man to worm his way into her heart, mending something she never considered might be whole again. Suffering the incorrigible elf, who reminded her to live when all she could see ahead was death.

"All right," she murmured, lifting Alistair's hand and pressing a kiss against the frigid leather at the knuckles of his gauntlet. "I promise to try and… relax."

"Wow." He huffed out a soft laugh, then leaned over and brushed his lips across her brow. "_That's_ enthusiasm. They're not slavering genlocks, darling—you'll be fine. And if they start acting up again, Zevran is probably more than willing to resort to spanking. Or you could tear another strip off them, because honestly? Hot. Scary, but hot."

"You're awful," she chuckled, ruffling his soft blond hair. "Thank you for noticing when I start going awry."

Pulling away just a bit, he shrugged modestly. "Of course I notice. I'm beside you the entire time, aren't I?"

* * *

Alistair knew he was grinning ridiculously around his mouthful of supper, but he really couldn't help it. She was just so… vibrant, and he felt a weight lift off his shoulders at the ease and carefree joy she was finally starting to allow herself again. It had been months since he'd seen her smile without shadows lurking behind her eyes, except when the three of them were alone. He wasn't about to let something like being Commander of Ferelden's Grey Wardens break her breathtaking spirit.

Zevran was grinning too, watching her laugh at some story Remya was telling, with her eyes actually twinkling in the firelight. She was truly making an effort to relax, and while the recruits may have been a little wary at the shift in their Commander's temperament, they were quickly warming to the idea.

He was hardly surprised— she'd always been utterly enchanting.

"—and then the stupid sod sits up, and says_ at least the nug doesn't have a beard!" _ The lot of them started roaring, and the Commander was actually shaking with mirth.

Leaning forward, she clapped a hand on the young dwarf's shoulder amiably. "By the Stone, Remya, just wait until we reach Kinloch village tomorrow— I know a man there who you are going to _adore_." Alistair suddenly found himself on the receiving end of an enthusiastic smirk. "I think Oghren will get along quite well with the recruits, don't you Alistair?"

Imagining the trouble Remya and the twins could get up to with that old scoundrel was almost terrifying, but he nodded anyway. "Oh yes, my dear. So long as no one drinks anything he calls a _special brew_, we may even make it out with only minor injuries."

"Kinloch?" Carran was busy sopping up the last of his supper with a morsel of fresh corn biscuit, but paused long enough to furrow his thick brows. "Not even a proper village, is it? Just a squatty little hamlet grown up near the docks to the mage tower."

"And the last decent place to rest before we have to start up into the Frostbacks," Alistair informed him, setting his own empty bowl aside. Zevran had truly outdone himself with the salt pork and preserved tomato concoction, bulked up with herbs and other hardier vegetables— perhaps it wouldn't be too much effort, trying to convince Victor to try out a few Antivan recipes after all. "And I believe we also have business with the mages. Am I right, love?"

He'd made a conscious effort not to call her 'Commander' that evening, and she seemed to notice if her indulgent eye roll was any indication. "Quite right. A quick visit to the Tower to pick up the supplies we need, then we'll likely impose upon the hospitality of dear Oghren for the evening. From what he's told me in his letters, they've got a barn big enough to keep us out of the wind for a night."

"A barn," Zevran drawled playfully, lifting his linked hands high above his head in a sinuous stretch. "You'll spoil the little ones, _mi_ _amora_."

Years removed from the sting of the memories, Alistair didn't spare more than a moment's thought for Arl Eamon and a lonely little boy in drafty loft. "It's probably more of a brewery than a barn, Zev, unless that Felsi woman managed to put a leash on him."

"Sounds promising." Amery rubbed his hands together expectantly, but Alistair shook his head at the young man's exuberance born of ignorance— a dangerous state of mind when it came to dealing with Oghren.

"Oh, Amery— you've never had dwarven-made liquor, have you? I'd try and keep it that way."

"It's not drinkable unless you can stand on it," Soren rumbled, which earned him a few surprised chuckles, and Alistair was relieved to see the warrior's abrasive nature hadn't left him a complete pariah in their little company.

Making a point of getting to know the recruits had been a focus of his since the beginning. Alistair missed the camaraderie of their former company, and the brotherhood he'd had before the disaster at Ostagar— even the other templar initiates had formed some level of bond, though Alistair had been the odd man out. It was this effort to connect with his charges that lead Alistair to the conclusion that Soren was a complex little fellow; a lifetime of dwarven isolation had ingrained a few nasty prejudices, but with any luck that would work itself out in time. He knew enough about the culture of Orzammar not to take it too personally when his overtures of friendliness were gruffly deflected, but he could see Soren's armour begin to crack a bit as well.

"Or use it to etch granite." Pressing a hand against her stomach dramatically, the Commander sighed. "I never thought I say it, but I actually miss lichen ale— the horrid, delicious swill." She also seemed to understand the importance behind Soren's hesitant interjection into the conversation, and tried to include him even further by favouring him with a grin. "Kinloch will be a good introduction for our tall companions— a surprising number of dwarva keep homes in the village. For trade, it's quite conveniently placed between Denerim and Orzammar, and because of its distance from the Frostbacks it's usually the first place dwarva settle if they're new to the surface."

The sudden look of horror that passed over Soren's face was startling— Alistair had seen men wetting themselves while surrounded by walking corpses look less alarmed. The look was gone as quickly as it had appeared, but Soren remained distinctly pale. Mentioning it now, in front of the others, would be disastrous.

As subtly as he could manage, Alistair shifted to clasp her hand, trying to communicate his intentions. He couldn't risk addressing the issue right away, but he wanted her to know he would deal with it. When her head twitched almost imperceptibly in his direction, he knew she understood.

"The wind's shifting," he said quite conversationally, and it was true, which saved him from thinking of a more plausible excuse. "It'll be coming from the south soon, I'd wager, and that means a cold night. We might need more wood, and I should check on the horses."

"Good idea." This time, her nod wasn't meant to be covert. "Ed— no wait, you're on cleanup duty. Soren, go with Alistair."

If he hadn't been watching so carefully, Alistair would have missed the slight narrowing of Soren's dark eyes. "Yes, Commander."

Tied securely near the wagon, the horses were huddled together under a canopy of pine bows, looking peaceful and not particularly concerned about the temperature. They were huge, hairy-hoofed beasts, meant for carrying a warrior in full heavy plate and even some armour of their own, and Alistair hadn't mentioned to his dearest love that they were probably intended as an insult rather than a true gift. He'd seen the horses the Orlesians had been riding, and he knew there had been several smaller mounts— agile little things— much better suited to both the Ferelden Commander's fighting style, and her race. Dwarves struggled with riding horses, he knew, and it didn't help things when the animals stood nearly eighteen hands high.

The Orlesians took some issue with their eastern neighbours— not the least of which being that their fiery dwarven Commander had apparently survived killing the archdemon. There had been too many people on the roof of Fort Drakon to effectively credit Riordan with the slaying, and so they'd been forced to get creative with their explanations. Perhaps it was because she was dwarven, perhaps because she'd been barely tainted a year, or perhaps she'd simply been strong enough to withstand the Old God's essence (after all, she'd managed to unite three disparate races and a nation torn apart by civil war under her banner, by her strength of will; the Orlesians seemed to resent that theory the most). She and Alistair had been hardly more than raw recruits, facing the darkspawn horde alone, and they'd managed to snatch an impressive victory from the jaws of certain defeat. Thanks to her extraordinary leadership, it had been the shortest Blight in recorded history. Understandably, the Orlesians remained sceptical.

Rubbing his hands over the horses' thick necks, Alistair murmured a few soft endearments as he adjusted their blankets. He'd already scraped the wet, impacted snow out of their hooves when they made camp, and when one warm grey nose butted gently against his shoulder, Alistair smiled. They may have been intended as an insult, but he really liked them.

Soren was standing some distance away, eyeing the horses suspiciously as he leaned on the solid, heavy axe they kept for chopping wood. Most of the dwarven men Alistair had met in his life had been generously built, broad in the shoulders and heavily muscled, and Soren was most definitely not an exception. Having sparred with the man more times than he could count, both armed and hand-to-hand, Alistair knew he could have made quite a name for himself had he stayed in Orzammar. Why then, especially with his generally intolerant attitude, was the young man so adamant on joining the Wardens? Why had he sought them out during that visit to the dwarven city— a promising warrior, for whom honour and duty were obviously paramount, willing to leave his family, his home, and his people?

"Good lads," he said, stroking the geldings' silky manes. "You'll be fine tonight."

Turning to Soren, Alistair jerked his chin towards the deeper forest. "Let's get to it, then. They'll likely be some deadfall a bit farther in." The dwarf hefted the axe over his shoulder without a word and started off, possibly a bit eager to be away from the massive horses. It only took a few long strides for Alistair to catch up, then he shifted his pace in a way quite familiar for anyone accustomed to walking with the stout folk. "We shouldn't need much more wood," he began, stepping carefully through snow-covered roots. "But thank you for coming to help."

Grunting in response, Soren continued clomping along beside him. Then, after a few moments of rather comfortable silence, he spoke. "I do as I'm bid, Alistair; I follow orders. There will not be another issue."

"I didn't say there would be. I know you're smart enough to realise you're on loose sand with the Commander." He purposely used a phrase he knew Soren would recognise as dwarven, but the man didn't react. "I also know the thought of meeting the dwarves in Kinloch makes your blood run cold."

"You know that, do you?" They'd just come across a dried out husk of a birch tree, still barely clinging to its splintered stump, and Soren braced his boot against the trunk. "Do you also know it's none of your blighted business?" There was a harsh crunch when the tree detached, landing on the forest floor with a wet thud, and Alistair moved to drag it into a better position. The relatively small tree felt like it would burn hot, but it was still dense enough to keep the fire lasting.

He shot Soren a mild look, raising one brow. "It's no wonder Orzammar doesn't keep a standing army together— be a bit difficult when its warriors work so hard to be grumpy old arseholes to their comrades in arms."

Soren snorted, shifting his grip on the axe. "If you surfacers spent a bit more time swinging swords and a bit less time worrying about each others _feelings_, you might not have needed a dwarf to come up and end your Blight for you." With one powerful move, the ragged end of the trunk was hacked off. A few more whacks, and the thickest end of the tree was lying in five neat pieces, each about as long as Alistair's forearm. The rest of the deadfall was slender and crooked, and when Alistair poked it with his boot it gave way under the pressure, damp with rot.

"Let's split what we've got," he said, already lifting the largest of the pieces up onto its end. "Oh, and I'll have you know I helped quite a bit with that whole Blight thing."

When Soren growled out a dry chuckle, Alistair mentally patted himself on the back. The dwarf leaned on the axe again, pushing back a strand of long, tawny hair that had come loose from his braid. "I'm sure you did," he allowed, with some sarcasm. "And I don't truly try that hard to be an arsehole. It's natural talent."

"Never would have guessed," Alistair huffed, reaching out for the axe. "Here, let me." Shrugging slightly, Soren passed it to him. Even the largest piece wouldn't make more than four good sticks, and with a deep breath Alistair started to work.

About halfway through, when Alistair could feel the first hint of dampness pop on his forehead, Soren cleared his throat quietly. When he spoke, his voice was much more serious than a few moments before. "I suppose the Commander has told you about our caste system?"

Nodding, Alistair kept chopping wood, though he did slow his tempo significantly. "She has, and I think I've got a fair handle on it." He thought he might have a handle on where the conversation was headed, as well, but Soren's next question threw him off kilter.

"Did she explain to you what a noble hunter is?" Now Alistair did pause in his splitting, letting the axe hang by his side. Soren was very clearly _not_ looking at him.

"A woman of lower caste who want to bear a noble's son. If she is successful, her family is raised up to live in the noble's House, and she is kept as a concubine. Am I close?"

"Nearly. Noble hunters are caste_less, _but if they can bear a strong son of good blood, then they've at least proven themselves to be of some value." When he caught Alistair's disapproving scowl out of the corner of his eye, he shook his head in annoyance. "What could they hope to contribute otherwise? The brand keeps them in the slums, in squalor— it is our _tradition_, human. I didn't make it so."

Biting back a rather spiteful opinion of dwarven traditions, Alistair fought to keep his voice even. "Yes, well, that it's tradition doesn't make it right— and if you disagree, you should try and explain to Keliani and Rimon that the oppression of their people is simply _tradition_." When Soren's expression fell into something flinty and distant, Alistair nearly cursed aloud. It hadn't been the intention of this outing to ream him for the world's injustices, even if he insisted on propagating one of them. Remembering that this mulish lout of a man was meant to be his brother, Alistair sighed deeply. "I apologise, Soren. That was unnecessary."

"Stuff your apology," Soren snapped. "You think I'm a dust-brained, bigoted clod and you're sodding right."

They stood across from one another for a few long moments, with breaths beginning to billow in visible clouds as the evening grew colder. Finally Soren muttered something harsh and guttural in his own tongue that Alistair could remember hearing very few times, and only when his love was utterly furious.

"Linza was my older brother's woman." The dwarf's voice was rough, as if every word was dragged over his tongue like broken glass. "A noble hunter who'd caught his eye with her soft smile and broad, healthy hips. She was older than most of the others— a little less painted up, and her handler hadn't paid for enough training to polish her— so when my brother approached her with an offer, she settled for warrior caste.

"My father was a fine warrior, born of fine warriors, and he served a good House for many years. We have a small family estate near the Diamond Quarter, and my brother convinced Father to allow Linza to live in the servants' rooms, even before she became with child. I cannot say if my brother loved her, but I think he cared for her. I only know she captivated _me_."

This was, in Alistair's estimation, the most forthcoming Soren had been since he'd been recruited. In an attempt to avoid those walls slamming back into place, he didn't say a word. Soren, on the other hand, was nearly choking on the rest of his tale.

"I was weak and foolish. When she told me soon after that she was pregnant, that she was sure the child was mine, I made her swear never to speak a word of it to my brother. She clung to my legs and wept, pounded her fists against my chest with a desperate fury, but eventually she agreed. It was better that way, even… even if it tore my heart out." Alistair was forced to blink back a surprising grittiness in his eyes when Soren's voice grew thick and heavy. This was a man still in pieces, bleeding and embittered.

With his powerful hands clenched into fists at his sides, Soren continued in barely a whisper. "When the child was born— Ancestors, I'd never even considered it might be a girl, a daughter. _My_ daughter." A daughter who would have been casteless, like her mother, and a disgrace to those who had allowed her to be born. Alistair shuddered at the implications, but Soren didn't seem to notice. "Of course I knew what such a child meant, and I offered to dispose of her— to keep things as private as possible and spare my brother further grief, I told him— but I couldn't. I knew I couldn't even before I held her for the first time, wrapped in a scrap of rough cloth that scraped her delicate, perfect skin. She was an embarrassing mistake to my family, but she was… mine. My blood."

Relief flooded through him, but Alistair would not allow himself to relax yet. In his experience, births shrouded in disgrace and secrecy did not usually end blissfully— especially for the children. For the first time since he'd begun his story, or perhaps his confession, Soren looked the other man in the eye. There was shame and anger burning there, so hot Alistair flinched.

"I managed to hide her away for a short time," he said, still speaking quietly in the stillness of the forest. "Long enough to steal a significant amount of coin from my family's vault. More than we could afford, I knew. I found Linza in her tiny, musty bed, still pale and fragile from the birthing, but for our baby she managed to be strong.

"I knew a merchant, someone I could trust, and he agreed to help smuggle the pair of them to the surface, and make sure they arrived safely at some friendly village. That was the first time I'd ever seen the sky, when I helped load Linza and my daughter into the back of his cart." Soren jerked his head away suddenly, but not before Alistair saw the dampness on his ruddy cheeks. "Linza had tears running down her face, but she wasn't making a sound, and then her arms were tight around my neck, and I kissed her with every bit of good in me. My daughter was so calm, and so very beautiful in the faint sunlight, and I would have given anything to stay with them and watch her grow."

"Why didn't you go with them?" The question escaped before he could think better of it, but Soren just laughed, brutally and with a sour kind of anger.

"No Alistair, a noble hunter stealing from the family that brought her in and disappearing is not nearly so shameful as a son who would disgrace his blood and the very Stone that made him." Anger that was directed inward, it seemed, along with layers of humiliation that even Alistair, the bastard son, could barely comprehend. Soren kicked a mound of snow viciously, sending it flying in a wide arc through the evening air. "I let my daughter live, another casteless waste, I was a thief and a liar and I betrayed my brother, all because of my own weakness. And the very _worst_ is that I would do it again in a heartbeat to save my daughter's life."

Setting the axe on one of the remaining logs, Alistair took a few careful steps towards him. "Do you think killing a helpless child would have redeemed you? Truly?"

Waving a cautioning hand to keep some distance between them, Soren tilted his head back and stared up into the leafless canopy. The darkening sky was clear through the skeletal treetops. "It doesn't matter; it's done. I couldn't stay in that house anymore— I couldn't even look my brother in the eye. I didn't deserve to live among my people as if I'd done nothing wrong, and I had no honour left to lose… but for the sake of my family I had to atone. Running off to join the Legion would have been suspicious, but the Grey Wardens are still a respected order among my people. You offered me a way out, and for good or ill, here I am."

Throughout his life, people had snickered and complained that Alistair wasn't as complex in his thinking as some others, or that he was simply a dullard if they were feeling especially blunt. It wasn't true, really— he was a little sheltered, granted, but he wasn't dim. Despite the lengthy, emotionally charged exposition, he'd still managed to piece Soren's current concern together quite handily.

Daring to ignore the warning, Alistair rested his hand on Soren's shoulder. "You're worried Linza may be in Kinloch village, aren't you?"

A deep inhale expanded Soren's barrel chest, then rushed out like the smoke of dragons' breath. "Yes."

He didn't ask if Soren would want to see his daughter again— such desires would clearly be overrun by the dwarf's blasted sense of honour. Instead, he offered all he could: sincere but useless assurances. "Ferelden is not a small place, Soren, and you said you gave her coin. She could have travelled anywhere."

Brushing the hand from his shoulder with some force, Soren flexed his fingers and turned back to the half-split logs. "Let's just get this wood finished and get back to camp."

The walls were back up, but only time would tell if they were weaker for the flood that had just pushed through them, or built even higher. Alistair would deal with it either way— and if this Linza woman was in Kinloch, he would deal with that as well.

For good or ill, he would not leave one of his brothers to face such a challenge alone.

* * *

_AN: mille libri, you were completely correct in your review_—_ I knew Alistair had been getting the shaft in terms of content, and I hope this chapter offers some insight into his current state of mind. Also, I've gone back in a few fics to check for the subtlety thing, and yes, it's a typo I make too often. My own fault for not having a beta. Thank you for catching it, and for your lovely review. _

_I also hope I've done Soren a justice here_— _he's come off as a gigantic dick in previous chapters, and you might still see him as such, but I hope he's at least a bit more layered now. Anyway, thank you all for your reviews: welcome to new readers/new reviewers, and to those who've been on board since the beginning... well, you're just fabulous. I know it's a weird piece, with a bunch of OCs, a polyamorous relationship as a main plot point, and all that jazz, but I really enjoy writing it. So seriously, thanks for reading. Love, littleblackdog._


	9. Chapter 9

The Circle Tower had been a fixture on the skyline for some time as they continued westward, but now that they'd crested the final hill and come through the arching remains of the old highway, the deafening silence from the recruits made her smile. It was certainly a view, rising out of Lake Calenhad like a massive dagger thrust up from under the water— water she was rather concerned to see was packed nearly solid with swathes of ice.

She told Carran to stop the horses at the top of the hill, unwilling to take the wagon down the steep incline unless absolutely necessary, and hopped down from her seat with an audible squish under her boots.

"All right," she bellowed, watching with amusement as her brood shook themselves out of staring slack-jawed across the lake. "The ferry to the Tower carries only two passengers at a time; Alistair and I are heading across, and you will all wait here until we return. You may visit the inn below—" She pointed to the Spoiled Princess, wondering idly if Felsi might be working, but there were pressing matters. "But do not leave the wagon with less than three of you guarding it. Do not buy a magical charm from anyone, because it will be a fake, and if it's not, it might kill you. Do not touch the lake water, because it might also kill you, and do not trust Zevran not to push you in anyway."

"Eh!" Crossing his arms, Zevran pouted, while the recruits were looking more concerned by the moment. "You wicked little spoilsport."

Carran raised one hand questioningly. "Uh, ma'am? Is the lake really so different here than in Redcliffe? I mean, I swam in that lake since I was a sprout of a lad."

"Well that settles it," Amery said with mock conviction. "If you end up like Car, I'm not getting any closer than this." Carran's cheeks went scarlet, but she wasn't about to allow a squabble.

"Zevran," she continued, with an undertone of real anger, and Amery flinched. "Feel free to heave Amery into the lake if he insists on being an ass to his fellow Wardens. As for the rest of you— I don't need to tell you to mind Zevran, do I?" A chorus of 'no, ma'am' and 'no, Commander" sounded through the frosty air, and she nodded. "Good. Come on, Alistair."

She and Alistair trudged down the hill together, with Alistair grabbing her arm only once when her foot slipped, and made their way towards the jetty. There was a human man squatting near the only boat berthed there, doing something quick and complex with the rope keeping the little vessel tied. Thinking hard for the final few steps, she finally remembered a name.

"Kester?" The man gave the rope one final tug, testing the knot, then stood with a pained groan. The mildly annoyed expression gracing his weathered face when he turned to them was quickly replaced by recognition, then pleased surprise.

"My word, good day to you, Wardens." Kester bowed awkwardly, mostly from the shoulders. "It's, well, it's an honour to see you again, after the job you did with the Blight and all."

She smiled amiably, trying to put the man at ease. "Thank you, Kester. We've come on rather pressing business with the mages, and we were hoping you could get us across to the Tower."

"Ah." The man rubbed his neck, motioning towards the lake. "Trip's a bit hairier this time of year, but Lyssie can make it. But, uh, it's just you two, I hope. Haven't got that huge talking statue with you?"

Shaking her head, she tried not to let her mind wander to worries about Shale and Wynne. The pair of them had set off for Tevinter over half a year ago, and there had been little word of their progress thus far. Amaranthine had received exactly one letter, back before the first snowfall, that simply stated they'd crossed the Free Marches without trouble, and were headed into the depths of the Imperium. "No," she said. "Just us."

* * *

_Hairier_ had been an interesting choice of words— the wind cutting across the lake was bracing, the hunks of ice were rather disquieting as they banged against the ferry's aging planks, and Kester had been much less talkative than she recalled. He'd spent the trip poised near the bow, pushing a relatively clear path through the crowded lake, muttering curses every time something buffeted against his beloved boat, then apologising tersely for every harsh word.

Stepping out onto the docks under the Tower, she managed to keep her legs from shaking visibly, but it was a close thing.

"We shouldn't be terribly long," Alistair was saying, looking a little pale himself. "Are you sure you won't wait inside?"

Kester's expression spoke volumes, but his words were much more diplomatic. "No, thank you Warden. Never let the weather force me inside in all the years I've been ferrying this route; not about to start now, with just a little nip in the air."

She, on the other hand, was eager to get into the Tower despite the rather uncomfortable meeting she foresaw. It would not be terribly surprising to find Irving less than pleased now that the time had arrived to involve one of his few remaining mages in their dangerous ritual, especially as he was well versed with the risks.

Nodding to the windswept templar guarding the entrance, she and Alistair trudged up the stairs that lead to the Tower's main doors. Soon enough they were inside the entrance hall, and the orderly, immaculate state of the place was a far cry from any of her previous visits. More templars stood watchful at the doors, both leading out and deeper in to the Tower itself— when they approached the entry to the apprentices' quarters, one steel plated monolith held out a forestalling hand.

"Knight-Commander Greagoir has been summoned, Warden." She couldn't see a face under the massive helm, and she did not recognise the voice. "You are asked to remain here until he arrives."

Bowing her head slightly, she turned and strode back into the middle of the hall. Shooting Alistair a sidelong glance, she quirked the corner of her mouth. "It's not like we don't know the way," she murmured good-naturedly, with only a hint of impatience.

Alistair grinned, giving her shoulder a brief squeeze. "Yes, but the last time they gave us free run of the place, we looted every chest and footlocker we could find. Perhaps they're worried you'll make off with the good silver." Shushing him with a subdued chuckle, she started tapping her boot lightly against the stone floor— it was obvious, even with faces hidden, that the templars were watching them closely.

Finally, after more time than she'd ever left guests waiting for an audience at Amaranthine, the enchanted doors swung open and Greagoir marched out with two more templars flanking. He approached, and by way of greeting she inclined her head again, no deeper than she had for the sentry.

"Wardens." Greagoir looked better than he had the last time she'd seen him, in Denerim after the battle; not being covered in blood and corruption, she'd discovered, tended to improve one's mood and appearance. "We hadn't expected your arrival for a few days yet." After a sharp once-over, Greagoir motioned for them to follow him into the Tower, leaving his retinue behind.

He did not modulate his pace in deference to her shorter legs, the way she knew Alistair did and tried to hide from her notice, but she easily kept in step beside him. "The North Road is relatively clear," she informed him politely, if slightly brusque. "And we had no problems with weather. We are not so early as to cause an issue with the preparations, I hope?"

"That is something you will have to discuss with the First Enchanter." She thought perhaps she saw a slight softening of his dour expression at the mention of his colleague, but before she could ask after the other man, Greagoir continued. "Irving would have come down to greet you himself, the daft old fool, if I hadn't kept your arrival as quiet as I could. I am nearly forced to confine him to his office to keep him from injuring himself further."

She huffed out a sigh, pushing aside a pang of guilt, but then Alistair spoke up, asking what she was almost afraid to. "How is his leg?" Greagoir stopped, just at the bottom of the stairs leading to the second floor, and shook his head. They'd seen only a scant handful of mages thus far, and a few more templars, but still he dropped his voice.

"Better than I expected, having seen the damage before the healers started their work— you both saw, as well. The best healers in Ferelden did all they could, and a handful of mages from Orlais and Antiva even came to offer assistance." Crossing his arms, Greagoir's eyes flickered towards the stairs. "He must use the cane still, and likely always will. The cold bothers him, and if he does not stop his irrational persistence of travelling between floors without aid, I swear I will crush his other hip myself."

It was clear from his expression that the Knight-Commander realised he'd strayed away from the aloof image he tried to maintain in regards to his charges, and with a sharp clearing of his throat, he lead them onwards. She'd seen Greagoir's reaction when Irving was being carried down from the roof of Fort Drakon, and had no doubt the men were better friends than even they realised, regardless of how often they might clash.

The Tower's second floor was also neater than she remembered, and as they passed some doorways, she thought she might recognise a few faces from Denerim. The mages had proven pivotal in the final battle, and she would always be grateful for that. Dodgy ritual or no, she or one of her companions could have easily fallen on that roof if not for the support of her gathered armies.

She congratulated herself silently— that was the first instance she'd ever been able to recall Morrigan's offer without feeling physically sick. Practicality and the survival of both Ferelden's Grey Wardens had forced her hand, but she could hardly regret the decision with Alistair still warm and alive at her side. Regardless, it was not a thought she wished to contemplate, especially in the midst of the Circle Tower.

The door to Irving's office was ajar, and the First Enchanter was engrossed in some dusty old scrolls— the sharp tap of Greagoir's gauntlet against the frame evoked nothing but an absent wave.

"One moment, please," Irving called, not looking up. The Knight-Commander stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, and after a moment's hesitation, she stayed where she was. There was an interesting camaraderie between the two men, but she was hardly willing to get involved in their little power plays.

Greagoir knocked again, this time on Irving's desk. "You have visitors, Irving."

"What?" Now Irving's attention did shift, and when he caught sight of the Wardens lingering in the doorway, he favoured Greagoir with a very annoyed look. "I am not such an invalid," he growled quietly. "That I must receive honoured guests sitting on my behind." Before Greagoir could do more than glare back, Irving turned to the Wardens. "It is good to see you, my friends, though I suppose the circumstances could be more cheerful." With obvious strain, Irving snatched up the carved wooden cane resting atop his desk and hauled himself to his feet. Saving the Circle, saving Connor, and saving the whole of Ferelden from the Blight meant that Irving was one of their respected allies, but the frequent communication between them since she'd begun her tenure as Warden Commander (both regarding the Joining, and Wynne) had formed something of a comfortable familiarity.

She smiled broadly, moving forward to meet him as he limped around the desk. "First Enchanter. You hadn't mentioned your recovery was going so well."

Laughing rather gruffly, Irving raised his brow. "You mean I didn't mention I was still tottering about like a newborn calf. After this long instructing young mages, don't think your sly jab escapes me, Warden." Sobering suddenly, he leaned back against his desk. "You haven't heard from Wynne since your last letter, have you? As the months drag on, I find myself growing… concerned."

"No, not a word." She glanced over at Alistair, whose own considerable unease was pinching his face, and reached out to lay a comforting hand on his arm.

"Ah. I had hoped…" Irving trailed off, rubbing his thumb against the head of his cane in a move she clearly saw would become habit, if it hadn't already. "In any case, I believe we have other matters to discuss. You are on your way to Orzammar, I take it?"

"We are, with nine recruits in all." When Greagoir made a surprised noise, she acknowledged the issue with a bob of her head. "It is a larger group than usually undergoes the Joining, but we are attempting to rebuild from an Order of two. Every one of my recruits is exceptional, Knight-Commander."

"Of that I have no doubt, Warden." There was a tension in the room, but it was not between the four of them. Rather, a shared unpleasantness was making itself known— they were all leaders, charged with testing and, through such tests, sometimes killing those who followed them.

Irving broke the silence after a long moment, though his voice was barely more than a whisper. "I assume you have the archdemon blood." She was suddenly very aware of the wide-open door behind her, but still motioned to Alistair. He reached carefully into his belt pouch and withdrew two small silver flasks, each covered in tiny, precise runes and no larger than his thumb. They'd been stored in the Grey Warden's cache in Denerim, along with several other items necessary for the ritual. The flasks had been empty, but now contained a small measure of foul black blood, even thicker and viler than what the recruits would have to collect. They were disturbingly warm to the touch, regardless of the temperature around them.

Irving nodded, but made no move to take the flasks. No one but Grey Wardens, and whomever Irving had chosen to assist them with the Joining, would ever touch them.

"I am sending two mages with you," he continued, straightening from his shallow recline and starting out towards the door. Alistair was already tucking the flasks away, and as soon as that was safely done the three of them fell in line with the hobbling man. "Given the dangers inherent in the preparations, I could not justify sending only one, even if our current numbers are sorely reduced."

She was careful not to stare at the way Irving's cane was taking all of his weight on his injured side— it was impossible to tell because of his robes, but it looked as if his left leg wasn't holding him at all. "Thank you, First Enchanter. The Wardens are always deeply grateful for the assistance of the mages in this situation." Greagoir was hovering, and she wondered idly if he realised how obvious his fretting and mothering was. Likely not.

Irving led them into a large room she recognised— they'd found that mage hiding in the closet here, the one who'd been smuggling lyrium. Turning that slimy _tezpadam_ over to Greagoir had been worth the coin they'd lost, and more. There was a dark-haired elven man sorting through a stack of books in the centre bedchamber, and it was he whom Irving addressed.

"Benjamin—" The man raised his head expectantly, startling more than a little at the sight of Greagoir and the Wardens. "Please fetch Marion and bring her here; make sure she has the bag I've asked her to pack. Thank you."

"Of course, First Enchanter." With a final wary glance at the Knight-Commander, Benjamin dashed off. Irving continued down to the far bedchamber, but the human man inside was already on his way out, wearing standard mage robes and a rucksack slung over one shoulder.

He had a shock of brilliant ginger hair with an equally orange beard— that alone stirred something in her memories— and his expression was understandably serious. "Is it time?" The question was directed at the First Enchanter, without even a glance to acknowledge Greagoir's presence, but it did not seem to be fear keeping this man's attention from the templar. More… quiet rebellion, if she was reading things correctly.

"Yes." Tilting his chin in her direction, Irving began introductions. "Wardens, might I present one of our more… daring mages. This is Llyr, and he will be accompanying you to Orzammar."

She frowned at the man, making no attempts to hide her scrutiny. She was sure she recognised him, likely from Denerim, but she could not place him precisely. "Daring in what way, Irving?"

"I volunteered," Llyr offered, before Irving could begin to explain. "After seeing first-hand what two Grey Wardens could do, I decided it was important to help make a few more. And yes, the First Enchanter has explained the risks."

A face suddenly flashed through her mind, firm in concentration, then wide-eyed with shock and agony. "You—" She hadn't meant for her voice to be so loud, but Llyr didn't react except to quirk both brows upwards. "You managed to freeze the archdemon when it had hold of me, near the end of the battle. I saw you get cut down by a hurlock."

The man shrugged, and she caught a glimmer of a smile. "I'm rather pleased you remember, Warden," he said, then rubbed one hand over his stomach. She recalled he'd been split open quite brutally. "I won't pretend it didn't hurt an absurd amount, but your timely slaughtering of the beast meant that I got to a healer in time." Unexpectedly, he shot her a playful glance with a bit of heat. "If you'd like, I could show you the scar sometime during our journey. It is rather impressive."

"_Llyr_," Irving scolded, but she merely barked a surprised laugh and tilted her head towards Alistair, who undoubtedly had his hackles raised as he loomed over her shoulder.

"Flattered though I may be, Llyr, I'm afraid you'd earn a few more scars if you tried."

"Too right," Alistair growled, and Llyr shrugged again, shifting easily into his former seriousness.

"Ah, no offence intended, Wardens. Now, where is fair Marion that we might begin this adventure?"

"Oh!" The shrill squeal from the doorway made them all turn, and suddenly the distinguished Warden Commander was being tackled by an exuberant dwarven woman. "You're here!" Dagna was hugging her neck fiercely, and everyone was simply staring.

Placing one hand on the young dwarf's back, she took a moment to catch the breath that had just been knocked out of her. "Atrast vala, Dagna," she said warmly, carefully extracting herself from the embrace. "I trust everything is going well with your studies?"

"It's just as wonderful as I always dreamed," Dagna gushed, releasing her captive to flutter her hands excitedly. "I can't thank you enough for getting me this chance, my lady!" As quickly as she had pounced, the girl took a shocked step back, nearly tramping on Alistair's foot in the process. "Oh, by all my Ancestors, I didn't, I mean— is it true they made you a Paragon?"

There were four human men watching the exchange with varying degrees of interest, amusement, and irritation; for Dagna's sake, if nothing else, she needed to end this conversation. "They did, but I am here now as a Grey Warden, and I'm very pleased you've found something that makes you happy." Patting the girl's arm genially, she turned her attention back to Irving. "And you, First Enchanter? Has your new student proven valuable?"

Favouring Dagna with a small, pleased smile, Irving nodded. "Very valuable, Warden. Dagna is insatiable in her studies, and we're all very intrigued to see what her dwarven insights will bring to our understanding of magic— regarding lyrium in particular." Greagoir rolled his eyes in obvious exasperation, but thankfully Dagna did not see.

Then there was another commotion at the door when Benjamin reappeared, with a willowy human woman in tow. She was rather tall for a human, and her slender frame was draped in heavily embroidered, golden robes that complimented the copper colour of her skin rather prettily.

The woman smiled as she swept into the room, leaving Benjamin to scuttle awkwardly back out the moment he saw Greagoir. Her teeth looked very white in her dark face. "Ah, I see Dagna found you on her own." She had a trace of some accent, vaguely similar the inflection of Zevran's voice, but also distinctly different. "She was most excited to learn the Grey Wardens were here— good day to you, Wardens."

Moving politely around Dagna, she slipped easily into her Warden Commander mantle— her improved, less relentlessly intimidating one, according to Alistair. "You are Marion, if I am correct?"

The woman bowed from the waist, a strange mix of sincere respect and exaggerated deference. "Indeed; that is what they call me here. And you are Ferelden's Warden Commander— a pleasure to meet you. First Enchanter, Knight-Commander." She had dark, almond-shaped eyes, and they sparked when she flickered her gaze ever so briefly over the silent, suddenly sardonic Llyr.

She had no time and less patience for whatever passed between the two mages— all she knew for certain, and all she cared to know, was that it would not interfere with her mission. The new, kindly Warden Commander would gladly step aside and leave her open to cracking magical skulls, if the need arose, but with any luck Irving hadn't completely shafted her in terms of his choices. Still, as long as they followed any orders she gave them, and could properly mix a deadly poison, she hardly needed to delve into their lives any deeper than that.

Noticing the faint signs of strain forming around Irving's eyes, and the slowly sinking manner in which he leaned against his cane, she decided it was time to take their leave. Getting the First Enchanter back to his office would be their first chore, however, then perhaps a brief review of the expectations for this… adventure.

For a moment, and not due to any particular dislike of her new mage companions, she was struck hard by how much she truly missed Wynne.

* * *

Zevran leaned against the back of the wagon, far enough removed from the arse end of the horses that he felt relatively secure in his lounge, and watched the brood make fools of themselves in the snow. Apparently, all it took for uptight little Warden-pups to unwind was the heady mix of boredom, immanent danger, and a distinct lack of their luscious Commander.

Zevran could relate to all but the last— _she_ certainly new how to unwind him, nearly as effectively as she wound him up.

After a short while of lingering nervously around the wagon, the little ones had begun to filter down to the dismal inn by the docks. He recalled there was not much of interest in the place, and was hardly surprised when they returned with spirits somewhat dampened. A little more lingering, and then one or two of them began pelting the others with balls of wet snow. Things had then progressed into a joyous kind of bedlam.

In an attempt to increase her range, Remya had clamoured up onto Eddard's broad shoulders and was still clinging there, peppering down the snowballs he passed up to her. For whatever reason, Amery had concluded the strategy a sound one, and having been rebuffed by his brother had somehow convinced Carran to serve as his mount. The four of them were careening around like drunkards, while Rimon, Ambrose, and even Leofric bombarded them from behind the copiously available cover. Soren, unsurprisingly, had claimed a seat on a nearby hunk of broken stone, and his dark expression was clear warning to leave him be.

Chuckling as Rimon darted out from behind a broken bit of pillar to fire a stream of successive shots, nearly all splattering against Eddard's chest, Zevran spared Keliani an amused glance when she walked around the wagon to prop herself next to him.

"Is all this fun simply too absurd for your sombre nature, my dear, or does your arm still trouble you?"

She sniffed in response, twisting her elbow joint about with no trouble. "As good as new," she informed him, flexing her fingers. "They do look as though they're having fun, don't they?"

Her tone was rather melancholic, but he was unwilling to offer very much in terms of friendly concern… he had never been especially skilled with serious dialogue. Perhaps selfishly, Zevran feinted. "I am quite certain they would allow you to join in, provided you brought your own snowballs." When her mouth twitched up into a brief smile, it looked as though he might have disabled the trap— but alas. Biting back a sigh, he forced himself to listen intently when she began speaking again.

"How many elves do you suppose are in that tower?" He could feel her grey, hawk-like eyes boring into him, and fervently wished for Alistair to appear, with his friendly nature and willing ear at the ready. No, he knew Keliani would have brought a question like this to him anyway, rather than to the_ human_. He could see the fear deep inside her, the horrible of gnawing feelings of being prey— she put on quite the stoic front, but she was just as broken as most any elf, especially one who crawled out of the squalor of an alienage.

"Before the Blight," he said quietly, knowing at the very least she was not the type to break down sobbing. Small mercies, he supposed. "I understand there were more than you might expect— we are apparently slightly better suited to magic than humans, though not enough to make any significant difference. I certainly have no idea how many might be there now."

There was an implied point to the question, he knew, and he was content to wait until she got around to it. It would be something about oppression and unfairness, and he was already anticipating her dissatisfaction with whatever answers he offered. Tugging his cloak closer around himself, he watched as her own thoughts slowly riled her up, hardening her expression into something unpleasant.

She crossed her arms and jutted her chin in challenge. "You don't care that they were children taken from their families and tossed into some gilded cage?"

"As were the human children, and _they_ are often snatched away from comfortable farmholds or even noble estates— not necessarily the filth and poverty of an alienage. I feel for elven mages as much as I feel for any other." Keeping his own expression bland, he turned and looked her annoyed moue straight on. It appeared dear Keliani thought he was not taking her outrage seriously, that he was being glib about the suffering of _their_ _people_. His careless shrug simply deepened her frown, but he had already decided it could hardly hurt to offer a bit of insight. "At seven years old, I was sold to the Antivan Crows by the whores who raised me. There was never any choice offered." She remained silent, considering him. That much of the story, he was sure the brood already knew, but there was much more there than some tragic childhood tale.

Glancing back over at the other recruits, he wondered how exactly he had become an educator of young, impressionable people. What a terrifying concept. "In my experience, a life such as that will destroy you, but only precisely as much as you allow it. It also strengthens you, precisely as much as you fight for. I take joy in the kind of man I have become, and it is _because_ of my admittedly difficult upbringing, not in spite of it. Poverty is a cage, just the same as that tower or the House of Crows— something I am sure you would admit if you cared to consider it." He offered an easy smile, free of even a hint of sarcasm. "I have found contentment, largely unencumbered by resentment. You might try it sometime."

He was a bit surprised that she didn't simply storm off in a huff. It was perhaps even more terrifying that these young people seemed, more often than not, to actually _listen_ to what lessons he offered. Thankfully, before the moment could become any more serious, the commotion nearby produced a suitable distraction.

"The boat!" Remya was shaking her snow-caked hair away from her face, with one arm wrapped around Eddard's forehead as she pointed towards the lake. "The boat's coming back!"

Indulging in a rare, silent prayer of thanks, Zevran raised his voice. "Right, tidy yourselves, my little Wardens. We will shortly have company, I expect."

They were still dishevelled, but not terribly so, when the small boat finally docked. Alistair was climbing out just as Zevran ambled onto the jetty, and the elf raised a brow at the absence of their beloved leader. Shaking his head at the unspoken question, Alistair offered the rather shaggy, redheaded mage behind him a hand up.

"She'll be along," he explained, just as the ferryman pushed off again without a word. "The First Enchanter offered two mages, and the four of us could hardly pile into the boat together. This is Llyr. Llyr, this is Zevran."

Dipping his chin in a brief greeting, Zevran clapped Alistair's shoulder affectionately. "You will be so proud, my friend. I've managed to keep the brood alive, and relatively unharmed. Look." He pointed back up the hill, where the recruits loitered about, likely beginning to suffer the consequences of their snowy frolicking now that the excitement had worn off.

Alistair chuckled, and rather pleasingly slung his arm around Zevran's back, squeezing briefly before retreating once again. "Never doubted you for a moment, Zev. Now come on, before they start to think we've bartered their Commander away."

* * *

The trip across the lake had not improved since her last journey, and a deep frown marred Kester's face as he pulled them safely into port. Still, he salvaged a strained smile when she and Marion began to disembark.

"An honour as always, Wardens," he said, and she offered him a broad, apologetic smile in return as she grasped Zevran's proffered hand. Both he and Alistair had come down to meet the boat, and the rather fascinated glance with which Zevran was favouring the exotic Marion was hardly unexpected. Stumbling deliberately as she was hauled out of the boat, she caught Zevran's eye and pressed her body against him.

Without a flicker of shame— not that she expected or required any from her lecherous lover— Zevran's ogle had transferred smoothly to the dwarf in his arms. "Why hello, _amora_. I find myself rather charmed by your lack of sea legs."

"Ah," Marion exclaimed with false enthusiasm, rising gracefully onto the dock with very little assistance from a slightly bewildered looking Alistair. "An Antivan. I suddenly feel so secure."

Zevran merely smirked at the woman's sarcastic tone, keeping one arm comfortably around the suddenly tense Warden Commander. "You also sound as if you are far from home, dear lady— you are Rivaini, yes?"

Slinging her large canvas bag over one shoulder, Marion narrowed her eyes almost unnoticeably at the continued half-embrace between the Antivan and the dwarf. "I am a mage," she said, and waved her hand in the direction of the Tower. "My home is just across this lake. Now, shall we move on before I am overcome with melancholy and attempt to swim back?"

* * *

It was approaching evening when they rumbled into the hamlet of Kinloch, an irregular little town with clusters of small cottages scattered a short distance down the road from the Lake Calenhad docks. The houses appeared well maintained and well built for the lakeside weather, and there were just enough sparsely populated animal pens and sturdy looking barns to make the scene quaint rather than congested, though any fields the villagers had were hidden by snow. Several faces appeared from doorways when their wagon rolled through, but no one stepped out to greet them.

Some of those faces were dwarva, and if Alistair hadn't informed her of Soren's _concern_, she might not have noticed the way the usually brash warrior sunk into the hood of his cloak. She very purposefully did not react to the obvious attempt at concealment, but at the same time she was keeping a sharp eye out for a branded woman with a baby. If a reunion were going to occur, she imagined surprise would be the worst way to begin.

Fortunately, the village was as silent as a lost thaig— until a familiar bellow shattered the stillness.

"Sweet sodding Stone!" Oghren appeared from inside one of the nearby houses, trampling towards them with all the speed and grace of an angry, half-blind bronto. He was dressed in simple, rough-cut clothing rather than armour, and his usually wild hair was trimmed close to his head. He looked… terrified, and perhaps more than a little drunk. Only the former was alarming. "Thank all my piss-faced Ancestors! Listen, there's no time to explain, but I'm callin' in a favour. You've gotta save my ass."

* * *

_AN: Ah! Oghren! I'm so excited, seriously. The next chapter is already started, and I hope it'll be out before Monday (when my new contract starts, so 9-5 job again: hurrah for money, boo for time). Updates might slow down a bit after Monday, just giving you fair warning. _

_Also, I know, two more OCs, it's a fic not a clown car, but we needed mages dammit, and Irving can't bloody walk. _

_**Sarah**, to answer your question about the sex, I'm trying to work something in with just two of them rather than three, because it does happen, especially with the watch shifts in camp. We'll see how things go. Also, I **love** Carran (and the rest, but he's... well, I'm not saying), so I'm glad you do too!_

_Finally, if you're all grown up (and if you're not, get away from the dirty threesome fic, whelp) and looking for some... mature DA:O fics, you should check out the dragonage-kink meme livejournal. Go, now. You know you wanna, you perv. I totally did, and maybe I even wrote something for it. Go.  
_


	10. Chapter 10

She was torn between actual concern, and the kind of amusement (tempered by barely sustained tolerance) with which one necessarily became very familiar after travelling with Oghren for more than a few days. When he'd appeared, she had motioned to Carran to stop the wagon, and now she hopped down to investigate.

His eyes were glittering almost feverishly, and she reconsidered her previous notion to approach and put a hand on his shoulder. Instead, she crossed her arms. "Calm down, Oghren, and tell me why your ass needs saving."

The recruits were likely staring, and she thought she might hear Alistair tramping up from behind her, but she kept her attention on Oghren. He was staring incredulously at her, like she'd just refused a keg of grain beer in favour of sour nug milk.

"What d'you mean, _why_? We didn't stop at a single dumpy little pisshole village where some witless rotter wasn't asking for our help clearing out bandits or finding some kid's lost cat and you never sodding asked them _why_—"

"I always asked why, Oghren," she said patiently, and now Alistair was beside her, looking uneasy. "Now spit it out."

With an aggravated grunt, the cantankerous dwarf seemed to visibly deflate. "Fine. Suspicious bloody moss-licking—" Jerking his head back towards the natty, grey stone cottage he'd tumbled out of, Oghren grunted again. "Just, come on then."

There was indeed a barn, one of the more spacious outbuildings she'd seen in the village, and Carran and Leofric offered to get the wagon and horses settled while the rest of them piled into Oghren's cosy homestead. Cosy quickly became cramped when thirteen bodies attempted to pile inside.

"Oh my goodness," Zevran cooed mischievously, leaning forward to rest his hands on the back of one small kitchen chair. "Look at the sweet little house! All the better for his tiny drunken stumbling—"

"Zev, do not start," she warned evenly, rather enjoying the rare luxury of having her feet rest on the floor when she sat at a table. Most of the furniture she could see had obviously been built with dwarva in mind, but the cottage itself was spacious enough that only Eddard had to duck slightly. "This is a handsome home, Oghren."

He leaned back in his own chair, running his hand absently over his neatly shorn head. "Felsi's idea— got to pay that miserable innkeeper a half-dozen bottles of the good stuff every month to keep it. Not bloody worth it, if you ask me. Could've just lived in her room above the tavern, but no, she wanted somewhere with a proper kitchen and more space and a _garden_ and… and I don't want to talk about it."

"Where is Felsi?" Alistair asked, leaning beside the smouldering hearth. "She wasn't at the Spoiled Princess when we stopped in."

"She's out." Oghren's tone would've sounded simply crotchety and gruff to the recruits, but there was an affection hidden beneath that was rather heart-warming. Branka had left a considerable wound in this man, but perhaps Felsi was indeed the woman to help mend it. "Should be back soon— that's why you've got to stifle all the sodding questions and just _listen_." Jabbing two thick fingers at the tabletop, he started to say something else, then glanced warily at the passel of strangers watching the exchange. "And you all can just bugger off and at least _pretend_ you're not listening in like nosy old biddies."

There was a general uncomfortable shuffling, but Oghren just scowled and turned back to his former companions— one Warden in particular. "I thought it'd be _great_, right," he began, and she sat forward a bit to make the conversation at least feel more private. "Living with a barmaid, all the free booze I could drink, never getting kicked out of the tavern for loosening my pants—"

"_Removing_ your pants—" Alistair corrected, but Oghren didn't even acknowledge the interruption, pushing through with perhaps a tinge of desperation.

"—But it's just bloody _awful_." Furrowing his ruddy brow, the dwarf immediately began to backtrack. "Well, all right, it's not _awful_… she lets me drink whenever I want, and she keeps the sheets clean, and by the Stone, can the woman _cook—_"

Sensing some inner turmoil, the three lovers shared a knowing look. Zevran, perhaps regrettably, was the first to speak up. "So what is the problem, my stocky little friend? Being acquainted with your people's… _appetites_, I must ask: is she too much woman for you?"

"Maker's breath, Zev," Alistair groaned, but Oghren just barked out a harsh laugh.

"Heh, yeah, very nearly, but Oghren's a special kind of man. Berserker stamina— drives 'em wild every time. That's not it, though." Now he was looking her straight on, intently, scratching his head again. "Felsi's been… _hinting_ about things. Pushing me. You're a Paragon now, so she'll listen to you… probably. Anyway, you've got to tell her to lay off."

She narrowed her eyes, but direct questioning wouldn't get her anything except cursed at, she was sure. There would be a roundabout way of figuring this out. Dropping her voice to a murmur, she rested her elbow on the table and propped her forehead up on one hand. "Oghren, your last wife was a Paragon and she left you for another woman. Now you're asking another Paragon to meddle in your relationship with your new wife—"

"Felsi's not my wife, you sodding thunderhumper!" She didn't flinch at the sudden shouting; she'd half-expected it at some point during the conversation. Catching himself after the outburst, Oghren growled sharply, then continued. "We've just got, uh, an understanding. Oghren's not getting tied down by any woman— not again. _That's_ what you've got to talk to Felsi about. I thought she got it, _said_ she did at least, just—"

It should have been more surprising that the barmaid in question chose that opportunity to return home, but a certain Warden Commander had stopped being shocked by such coincidences not long after Duncan had snatched her out of the Deep Roads. Perhaps the Ancestors had some plan for her life, or perhaps they simply had a sense of humour.

"Oh," Felsi said mildly when she saw the unexpected crowd crammed into her home. "The Wardens have arrived, I see." As the sturdy woman stepped inside, it became a bit more apparent why she hadn't been working at the tavern earlier that day— under her simple sand-coloured dress and dark cloak, she was round and bulky with child.

"That is… well, _quite_ an understanding," Alistair said under his breath, while Zevran started snickering.

"Blast it," Oghren muttered, then raised his voice. "I'm putting them out in the barn— hold your water, woman." Felsi was already untying her cloak and hanging it near the door, seemingly unperturbed by the unnecessarily defensive tone. Her general good-humour may have been due to the way Oghren, despite his prickly words, scrambled up and slid a supportive arm around her back, resting one rough hand on her belly as he lead her over to the table and the seat he'd vacated. "Where's that pebble brained shrew anyway? Letting you waddle home alone when you're full to bursting…"

Felsi sighed deeply, wiping at the faint, grubby finger marks left on her dress as she sunk down onto the chair. "My legs aren't broken, Oghren, but keep up this ridiculous fussing and yours might be. And don't try to tell me you weren't nagging our honoured guest to convince me you're too _wild a man_ to get married, or any rot like that." Weathering the glare she received without a flinch, Felsi turned to other woman also seated at her table, offering a sweet smile. Whether it was living with Oghren, or the glow her current delicate state provided, she looked blissful. "Atrast vala, Paragon. It's a privilege to have you in our home."

"Thank you, Felsi, truly," she replied, trying to keep the dread from dimming her expression. "But please, I'll suffer enough of that rubbish once we arrive in Orzammar."

"Your own fault," Oghren countered, and his dark amusement at her discomfort was apparent in the twist of his grin. "Ah, don't worry about it here; _Paragon_ lost its sheen for me years ago. You know you're family far as I'm concerned— I certainly don't think you're sodding _infallible_."

Clearing her throat sharply, Felsi continued as if he hadn't spoken. "There're more of you than I expected, but I could throw something together for supper if you haven't eaten yet." Forcing herself not to glance down at the curved swell of stomach peeking up over the edge of the table, the Warden Commander demurred gracefully. The idea of the other woman wobbling about the hearth, fixing up the significant quantity of food the company required, was not to be borne— and she certainly wasn't eating Oghren's cooking. Not again.

"We've enough of our own supplies, but if we could beg use of your hearth for the evening, that would be most kind."

* * *

The meal had been rather good, the dishes were cleaned and bundled back in the wagon, and the recruits and their new mage companions were out huddling together in the barn. She felt some measure of guilt at hustling them out, but truly, the cottage was just too small to keep them all comfortable— soon, once Oghren had gotten too drunk to reminisce, she, Alistair, and Zevran would leave the warmth of the hearth and join the others in their rustic accommodations.

"Surprising, s'all I'm sayin'—" With his chair tilting dangerously backwards, Oghren rested his mug on his gut, slopping his shirt with a ring of ale. "Holed up in that fortress, doin' nothing. Thought you'd be getting fat, but you're still just so… oh. Hm."

Shaking her head, she stretched out a bit and wiggled her toes a little closer to the fire. "You missed your chance, dear Oghren. I'm spoken for, and you've got a wee one on the way— I try not to let the regret consume me." Alistair barely twitched from his slump over the end of the table, while Zevran, lounging on the floor beside her chair, ran one surreptitious hand up the inside of her calf with a smirk.

"Aye, would've been a sodding _great_ tumble at that," Oghren agreed, sounding genuinely wistful, and they were quickly approaching the realm of too much ale. Then he shook himself, scrubbing one hand over his face. "Oh, hey, almost forgot. Felsi wanted to tell you at supper, but not in front of those scrawny-necked nug-humpers you're running with. Heh." Taking a long swallow of his drink, the dwarf glanced over at the darkened doorway nearby, where his not-wife had already retired. "We're naming the kid after you— and don't get all soppy with your dewlicking womanly _feelings_. You dragged me kicking and brawling out of the dust, and showed a pickled waste of a sword-caste that he could still do something worth doing." There was a moment of heavy silence, and something needed to be said, some thanks or recognition of the sincere, rather moving speech, but before she could find her voice, Oghren shifted in his chair and broke wind. It was loud and jarring, and somehow made the entire evening _perfect_.

* * *

"Oh, no mate," Ambrose murmured, poking Rimon's back with the toe of his boot. "She'd tear you in half— Maker's breath, probably just using her _mind_."

The four gents weren't _trying_ to be standoffish, lounging against the hay bales like a bunch of lazy sots, but the mages weren't exactly making the effort to be sociable either. Llyr was a tough one to figure out, going from jovially chatting and larking about to wandering outside to stand about in the cold alone— no hint as to why, no explanation. Amery had snuck over to peek out at him after he'd been gone for a good while, because it was generally assumed that losing one of the mages the first day would get the Commander's back up to no end, but apparently the man was just leaning against the barn and staring out into the night.

Marion, well, she was the reason Rimon was currently suffering a ribbing.

He was incredibly glad Keliani was out of earshot, chatting with Remya as the dwarf honed her axe. He and Keliani, they'd grown up together along with a dozen or so other elven children around their age, and while she wasn't actually his blood relation, she certainly teased him like only a beloved cousin or sister would. She'd gotten significantly more sombre since they'd left the alienage, which was a shame, because for all her sharpness she'd always had a beautiful smile. For something like mooning over a mysterious human mage, he was almost certain she'd cheer up enough to torture him.

"Might be worth it," he said quietly, responding to the previous comment and his own musing, and Amery hummed in eager agreement. He couldn't see Ambrose behind him, but he could imagine his dubious expression. Eddard, spread out on a makeshift cushion of straw, shook his head with a chuckle. Their impromptu gossip session was smaller than usual, for various reasons— Carran was over brushing the horses; Soren was off sulking, being especially unsociable for whatever bloody reason this time; and Leofric was curled up in his cloak, sleeping off the dark, heady ale the poor blighter _knew_ he couldn't hold, but had accepted a mug anyway like a polite fool at supper.

Rimon knew he was out of his mind, but perhaps it was the ale sloshing about in his own gut. He couldn't remember another human woman who'd ever really turned his head— there was something about their build, too tall and thick, and their faces tended to be too broad. Granted, his exposure to human women had been somewhat limited before he'd left Denerim, and those he had seen tended to look at him like he was some sort of filthy animal just escaped from its pen, or with a kind of pity that made his skin crawl.

This human woman, though, she looked at all of them with the same mild disinterest, and Andraste's lacy drawers, but she was gorgeous. Dropping his head to rest against the hay at his back, Rimon snorted. "Ah, I'm a little soused. Just… don't let me go over there."

"I'd tackle you first," Ambrose assured him, too loudly. "Or get Ed to sit on your chest."

"Ed's not sitting on anybody's chest," Remya called out absently, not even looking over. "I've laid my claim to that firm arse now, and 'less he wants to have words, he won't forget it."

Rather than become embarrassed at the outburst, Eddard just looked smug. "Understood, darling," he replied dutifully, and his pleased smirk didn't even falter when Amery slapped his shoulder.

Rimon froze when Keliani shot him a shrewd, rather displeased glance, and he felt his stomach drop when she leaned in to whisper something to Remya. After a brief, terrifying moment, the dwarf barked out a sharp laugh.

"And could one of you pervy bastards roll Rimon's tongue back in his head?" Remya grinned, holding her blade up to inspect the edge. "Gettin' drool all down his shirt, the poor duster. But hey, go on over and give'r a try, salroka, if you're willing to risk getting turned into a cave tick—"

Marion wasn't looking at them, dark eyes still scanning the book she'd been engrossed in for near on an hour, but Rimon felt as though his cheeks were on _fire_. Stupid bloody loudmouthed dwarf—

"Going for some air," he announced sharply, pulling himself to his feet with some force. He ignored the surprised pleas from his fellows to stay, and it was sheer drunken spite that made him tramp on Eddard's foot as he stalked off. Marion might not be looking at him, but Keliani certainly was, and her expression held not an ounce of contrition.

Sometimes he just _hated_ her.

Hauling the barn door open just enough to slip outside, Rimon discovered precisely how much of the night's cold was on the wind. Inside was certainly not toasty warm, but he couldn't bite back his yelp when the shifting, bitter air hit his skin, cutting quite effectively through his tunic and trousers. Llyr, leaning rather carelessly nearby, turned his head at the sound.

There was a flash of teeth in the moonlight as the man offered him a broad, easy smile. "Come to check on me?"

With kindness for his compatriots that he hardly felt at the moment, Rimon closed the door behind himself to keep the wind out, then kicked a divot in the hard-packed snow. "No," he snapped, then just as quickly he felt his childish anger fizzle. "Ah, damn, I don't mean to be an arsehole." The mage was still looking at him over one shoulder, not speaking, but something about damnable dwarven-made ale brought Rimon's words tumbling out. "It's just them—" He waved one hand in a wide arc, trying to encompass the whole of the barn. "Being _pricks_, and I'm nearly drunk, and disgustingly cranky, and holy Maker, how have you stayed out here this long?"

The wind from the lake was harsh and strong, and Rimon was silently cursing the cloak he'd left inside. Only half-aware, he barely caught Llyr's shrug. "Magic, Warden."

Hoping that maybe that magic was catching, or perhaps the mage had some sort of aura of heat, Rimon edged closer. "It's Rimon. _Warden_ might get awfully confusing, with eleven of us."

"You _are_ nearly drunk." Llyr chuckled, but even in his current state, Rimon could hear the undercurrent of questions beginning to take shape. No alienage elf survived without being able to read people, especially humans, and he'd been with the Wardens long enough to know how much of their secretive Order he should speak of. "I counted twelve, unless you were excluding your lovely Commander."

"Brave," he said, and now that he was close enough, it was apparent the mage was emanating some kind of heat. Had he one more mug of ale in him, Rimon thought he might have grabbed the human in a desperate hug. "Though I suppose she is lovely, in a terrifyingly deadly sort of a way… quite like a thunderstorm."

Perhaps due to a growing interest in the direction of the conversation, Llyr turned fully and pressed his back against the barn. "Oh Rimon, you didn't see her cutting down that archdemon like fury itself. If that's not lovely enough to risk a bit of lightning, well." There was a flash, so bright it made huge purple spots dance across his vision, and the air suddenly smelled strange and almost metallic. When his eyes finally cleared, Rimon could see a dripping hole in a nearby snow bank, ragged and nearly the size of a wagon wheel.

"Andraste's mercy," he breathed, tucking his hands tight under his arms. He realised he sounded like a lad again, squeaking voice and all, but he couldn't clear the tightness from his throat. "Did you just _make_ lightning?"

"Only a little." Llyr was grinning now, flexing his fingers, but Rimon had faced the uncontrollable threat of death from humans his entire life. Perhaps the display was meant to be impressive, or perhaps frightening— either way, he was simply startled.

"Hm." Finally, he got his voice back under control. Talking about the Commander as if she were a normal woman made him feel much more nervous than some mage putting on a show, so he changed the subject. "Right. And I meant eleven— Zevran's not a Warden, nor will he ever be, I expect."

"The Antivan?" When Rimon nodded, Llyr sighed with what sounded like contentment. "Ah, my new favourite person— he's got Marion in a bloody _fit_, though you'd hardly know it, the frigid shrew. If we weren't already at some sort of paradise for the besotted, I'd buy him a drink." There was still a sensible part of his mind, and with a desperate shriek it kept him from asking anything about Marion. "Wait, he's not a Warden, but he's coming on _this _trip? How interesting."

Now there was a cacophony in his head— he shouldn't ask about Marion, he shouldn't ask why that was interesting, he shouldn't show this mage he knew nothing specific about the purpose of the trip, and he shouldn't talk about his companions more than necessary. Trying to keep up the appearance of an enigmatic, legendary Order was certainly difficult when strangers seemed to know more about it than you.

"Maybe to you," he replied, not unkindly but with any luck, rather mysteriously. "It hardly hurts the Grey Wardens to keep powerful allies close, does it?"

Llyr didn't answer, but after a few moments of silence, he flicked his hand in Rimon's direction. "Here," he said quietly, and the faint heat intensified and expanded. It was like standing near a good-sized fire, and Rimon could feel it leeching into his tense muscles. "If you're going to keep me company, I'd rather you didn't freeze to death."

* * *

Drunkenly pining over some sharp, sour mage he'd just met was certainly reason enough to tease poor Rimon a tad, but his offended reaction had quite effectively sobered his companions. The young elven man was fierce in combat, and could be a proper riot as well— but only if his peculiar shyness didn't overcome him. One wrong joke, one mishandled response, and he would retreat. Usually he'd simply get quiet and cranky, but on rare occasions like this one, he would actually walk away. It wasn't nearly so volatile as dealing with Soren, but it did cause a bit more guilt among the recruits.

"That's just marvellous, girls. Really." Amery sat up from his sprawl, scowling darkly. "You especially, Ani, because don't think we all didn't see that _look_. If you've got that much of an issue with us shems, even after all this bloody time, say so now."

"Or," Ambrose continued smoothly, before Keliani could even open her mouth to reply. Suddenly, the oft-dissimilar brothers were flinty-eyed mirrors of each other. "If all this hissing is because you're interested in getting into Rimon's britches yourself, just tell the poor sod. He'd probably weep with the joy of it."

"Shut your stupid flapping gobs, the pair of you," Keliani snarled, losing her enviable composure in favour of embarrassed anger. Still, she managed to keep her voice low, so as not to carry across the barn. "You've no blighted idea what I've gone through for my _entire life_, trying to keep him safe. He's like family, and I thought that of any of us, you two would understand that."

Rather than look understanding, Amery rolled his eyes. "He's not some weedy little boy for you to lead about by the nose, you mulish woman. I agree completely that he'd be better off trying to tumble a blight wolf than that—" With the smallest of movements, he tilted his thumb in Marion's direction. "But you didn't have to try and have him _gelded_ in front of his friends." Their conversation had degraded to harsh whispering, but it was enough that Leofric groaned piteously before turning over and curling into a tight ball. Carran seemed to notice something amiss as well, padding over towards the rest of them with a confused frown.

Remya didn't apologise, she never did, but she did rub the back of her wrist harshly under her nose and glare at the floor. The twins didn't seem to be assigning much blame to her anyway, which was hardly surprising— taking all of Remya's jibes seriously would nearly guarantee constant misery, and intense feelings of inadequacy. It was, perhaps regrettably, part of her charm.

Carran crossed his lean, muscled arms, looking strangely stern for a man who'd just been chatting affably, and at length, to a pair of horses. "What's all the fuss? Where's Rimon gotten off to?"

"The girls embarrassed him," Amery replied, propping his knees up closer to his chest to make room on the hay bale. Now looking disappointedly at Remya and Keliani, Carran didn't notice.

"Shut _up_, Amery." Even steely, stubborn Keliani seemed to wither under the weight of Carran's doleful gaze. "He was going to make a fool of himself. He doesn't, I mean— dammit, he's gone outside in a strop."

"We're Wardens," Carran said very quietly. "Or near enough; he's your brother in arms. Teasing's all well and good for some, but you know how he gets. Why you'd think making him feel like a fool would keep him from acting like one is beyond my ken." With a determined set to his shoulders, he motioned towards the door. "He's just contrary enough to stay out there 'til he freezes his backside off, and I'm not willing to explain to the Commander why we were having another daft row. Now, somebody get off their duff and go fetch him."

"I'll go—" Keliani began, but Eddard was already hauling himself to his feet with a deep sigh.

"No, you won't," he muttered, rolling his neck and brushing the straw out of his hair with one broad hand. "Maker's blessing for offering, but you know you'll just make everything worse. I'll go, and if he won't listen to reason I'll just carry him in; no strain. Now, all of you wait here."

It wasn't very long after Eddard had trudged outside, letting in a gust of frosty wind on his way, that he returned with two companions in tow. Llyr had a quirk to his brow that seemed to indicate his former want for seclusion had faded, while Rimon was staring at them all quite warily, squirming under the press of Eddard's grip on his shoulder.

Carran had sat on the hay before Eddard even made it to the barn doors, and now he tapped the back of his hand briefly against Amery's nearby calf. "Come on then," he said, smiling just a little as he tucked his braid behind his ear. "Get your cards out, Amery. We're not ending such a fine night squabbling, so let's play for a while and all be mates again by the end. This is foolishness."

* * *

Oghren was out cold, sagging out of his chair so far his beard nearly touched the floorboards and snoring as loud as a high dragon's roar. With great care, she and Zevran managed to get Alistair to his feet and shuffled quietly out into the night, all without their indisposed host even twitching.

"You're _little_," Alistair announced, rather slurred. His feet were dragging as he leaned heavily on Zevran, nearly buckling the slighter man's knees when he jostled about, all bulky muscles and floppy joints. "Both of you are so little. It's just… wonderful. You're _perfect_, and I love you _so_ much."

"Thank you, _cariño_." Grunting as he rammed his shoulder under Alistair's arm, Zevran struggled to get a better grip. "Now stop wriggling, or so help me, I will leave you to freeze to death."

It was not a quick trip, staggering from the cottage to the barn in the slick snow, especially since none of them had full faculties intact. Clinging to Alistair's other side, something that in theory was meant to help the journey but in reality simply made the three of them all the more unsteady, she giggled softly.

"You're finally drunk, Alistair," she said, poking his belly and making him squirm even more. "Just like you wanted. Isn't it lovely?"

"I _am_ drunk." Alistair's voice was full of wonder, and Zevran shot her a dark look. "How does, how does Oghren fight like this? Maker, the ground feels like it's made of custard…" Trailing off, he licked his lips, then pressed a wet, sloppy kiss against Zevran's cheek. "Thank you, kind ser, for the escort across this treacherous, custardy path. I'd invite you to take full advantage of my willing state, but I think I'm going to sleep soon. Hm, very soon."

"Alas," Zevran lamented flatly, and they were finally with arm's reach of the barn. With one final heave, he pushed his passenger over to lean beside the wide wooden doors, only to be set upon again, this time by a lovely, buxom dwarf.

"I'm not tired." Pressing herself tight against his front, she slid her hands around to squeeze his firm rear quite boldly. "And I certainly wouldn't mind being taken advantage of."

Alistair sniffed loudly, eyes already fluttering closed. "I hate ale," he grumbled, former cheerful mood quickly giving way to grumpy lethargy. "My insides hurt. You two go make sweet little sweaty sounds at each other. Oh, _sleep_."

Unwrapping herself from Zevran just long enough to pull the barn door open, she kissed Alistair's hand as she herded him inside. "Go lie down, my love. We'll be there soon to cuddle."

"Oh, _cuddles—_" Noticing the circle of men and women watching the exchange over a hand of cards, Alistair dropped his voice to a whisper. "I _love_ to cuddle." Leaning down, nearly toppling over onto his face, he managed to steady himself enough to kiss a bit of skin near her mouth.

"Could one of you see to him, please?" Zevran was waving a hand in the direction of the recruits, motioning for assistance. "Get him lying down without breaking his neck, at least. The Commander and I will return shortly." When she saw that both Ambrose and Eddard were getting to their feet, she allowed her attention to shift back to certain pressing matters— the expression coiling around Zevran's features made heat pool deep in her belly.

"Thank you, lads," she murmured absently, a little embarrassed at her own distraction, but then Zevran's smirk widened dangerously.

"And if I catch any of you peeking, my little Wardens, you'll have to join in. Those are, of course, the rules." Before she could do so much as blush, Zevran had an arm looping around her, and was tugging her back into the night— the very chilly night.

Curling against him, she swallowed hard at the thought of baring her skin in this wind. "Out _here_?"

"Unless you'd rather an audience," he replied quite conversationally, already reaching under the skirt of her leathers to unlace her leggings. "I certainly wouldn't mind. In fact, I work rather well under scrutiny."

There were cold fingers and colder leather gloves, but the feelings they were suddenly evoking were hot and insistent, and with a surprised gasp she grabbed hold of Zevran's arms for support. The bit of ale she'd enjoyed helped dull the bite of the wintry weather, but made his touch seem even more like lightning along her skin.

He was leaning over her, crowding her against the barn as he began to lick up the side of her neck. The heat of his tongue left damp trails that cooled almost immediately, and she shivered at the contrast and at the urgent movements of Zevran's wrist.

"But you hate the cold," she whispered into his hair, then quickly struggled to catch her breath as he twisted his hand and bit down on her collarbone.

"You keep me warm." His voice was even softer than hers, with words nearly lost on the wind, but she heard.

It was all simply too much, and she felt the tremors start in her thighs, but fought to rein her peak in a little longer. Sliding her hand from his forearm all the way up to his chin, she lifted his face from the top of her bosom until he would meet her eyes. "I do love you," she said seriously, then punctuated the reminder with a deep, needy kiss.

Neither felt the need to speak further, and a rather helpful crate nearby proved to be an excellent equaliser and enabler. She was braced against the rough wood of the barn, unconcerned about the splinters no doubt trying valiantly to work though the leather of her gloves. She needed to hold tight to something, _anything_, to keep herself from flying apart as Zevran panted harshly against the nape of her neck, rocking into her with steadily increasing urgency.

Even through the haze of intense pleasure, she missed the feel of his smooth chest against her back, his teasing touches to her breasts, and a hundred other small comforts. What had begun as a quick romp had become something more serious, and despite the undeniable excitement and the freshness of their current union, she longed for the intimacy provided by their bedroom, even if only for a short while.

Then suddenly one of Zevran's hands was unclenching from her hip, trailing firmly up layers of drakeskin until finally entwining their fingers together. The tenderness of the gesture made her heart flutter— she could feel him nuzzling her hair, murmuring softly in Antivan— and with a sobbing cry she thrust her hips back and for a precious few moments, she was overwhelmed by the love, the passion, and the warmth.

* * *

_AN: More Oghren coming up in Chp.11, because I am aware this wasn't enough of the scoundrel here. I hope I've managed him at least decently... I mean, he's a bit settled down now, and I hope it came across as realistic. I'm not used to writing dear Oghren, and it's made me all kinds of nervous._

_I've been told more than once that Carran comes off as a bit mysterious. Ah.  
_

_Also, Amery likes to give people nicknames, which is a bad habit I have as well. Since (in my head) Keliani is pronounced like Kelly-AW-knee, "Ani" doesn't sound like "Annie," but rather "Aw-knee." If you like Annie, more power to you._

_And for my final two points, I love drunk Alistair, and my new job is exhausting. There, I prefaced my brief foray into whining with something more cheerful. G'night folks.  
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	11. Chapter 11

Oghren was a touch bleary-eyed the next morning when the Wardens were readying themselves to depart, but he was in no worse shape than poor Alistair, who was still bundled up in the back of the wagon like a sausage. A pitiful, wholly disagreeable sausage.

"Haven't got the stomach for the good stuff, eh lad?" Pounding the side of the wagon with one fist, Oghren's laugh was thunderous in the brisk morning air. Having just shovelled a large puddle of sick out of the dwarf's barn, because there were some things even a Warden Commander could not in good conscience order her recruits to do, she was less than amused. There was a wordless snarl from somewhere on the other side of the canvas, and Oghren doubled over with another roaring peal of laughter.

"Leave him be, you great bastardly menace," she grumbled, yanking on her fellow dwarf's shockingly fresh, clean shirt. "Come; we need to speak." Oghren swatted her hand away, peering at her with narrow, suspicious eyes.

"What? Quit pawing me, woman." Shooting a strange glance over to where Felsi was passing around mugs of cold water to the recruits, he crossed his arms defensively. "Listen, I don't really know what got said last night, but Felsi's, well, she's all right for a backbiting wench, and I got a kid coming. You and me, we didn't… uh… and even if we _did_—"

"Just calm yourself." As subtly as she could manage, she manhandled him a few more steps away from the others, and dropped her voice in the hope he might do the same. "You let me down easy, Oghren. Let's forget the whole thing."

"I let…oh." Clearing his throat, Oghren sniffed loudly then spat onto the snow. "Well, uh, good then."

"Mmhm." Now it was her turn to glance about, trying to make absolutely sure they would not be overheard. Satisfied that the others were occupied, she sent Oghren a very serious look. "I need some information, but please keep your voice down, all right? This is very important, and very private."

Perhaps it was the bizarrely respectful, familial relationship they'd built over their adventures, or perhaps it was Felsi's calming influence, but Oghren didn't make an off-colour joke about privates, and nor did he leer. "Sure. Out with it."

"Is there a woman in this village named Linza? She'll have a brand, and a young babe."

A slight furrow appeared in Oghren's forehead, drawing his thick brows together. "Aye, pretty thing, came topside less than a year past. Lives there." He pointed at a tiny, squat cottage some distance farther towards the lakeshore, built of rougher looking stone than the houses closer to the village centre. Still, besides the slightly sagging roof, the home appeared well maintained. "Sells breads and pies— sodding _good_ pies. What's she to you?"

"You know me," she murmured, her mind already spinning with what would be the best course. "Always looking out for the honour of whatever copper-headed sword castes I've picked up along the way."

"Heh, no lie there." Jerking his head in the direction of the others, Oghren lowered his voice to a growl. "That vinegary whelp you've got now, Soren? His kid, eh?" She nodded, and Oghren was quiet for a moment, scratching his beard absently. Then he gave her a peculiar, considering look out of the corner of his eye. "Know you well enough to know you're not about to let some pup make a bronto's ass of himself, _taking care_ of a slight to his honour."

His tone wasn't exactly friendly, but she knew the stubborn, bloody mire of dwarven honour well enough not to take offence. She trusted Oghren, but she would have asked him the same thing, were their positions reversed.

"Glad you know me so well, my friend," she replied, smiling slightly. "I'm attempting to avoid a distracting reunion, with the Joining looming. Soren doesn't wish them ill, but I doubt he wants to see them either."

"Hm, good. Better haul outta here, then." She felt flighty, expecting Linza to come spilling out of her home at any moment with squalling babe in arm, but kept herself in check as she and Oghren ambled back towards the others. The horses were already harnessed, their breath gusting out in great clouds as the barely risen sun began to warm the day, and the recruits seemed to have their gear in order.

"We're moving out," she announced, not as loudly as she could have. A modicum of stealth was called for in this situation. "Felsi, thank you again for the hospitality. We should be passing through again before month's end— is there anything we could pick up in Orzammar for your family?" The word _family_ was purely to make Oghren squirm, and it worked quite well.

Before the not-wife could reply, the Warden Commander found a meaty finger poking her hard in the shoulder. "After all you sodding Wardens drank last night, I've gotta start a fresh batch for this month's rent." Oghren was glaring, just a little. "Pickled nug— two barrels. And three bushels of dried white lichen. Then we're square."

She grabbed the finger, twisting it not enough to hurt but enough that he'd feel it, before she released him. "Done."

Zevran, who looked as impeccable as ever except for the barest hint of dark smudges under his eyes, slipped smoothly through the mob of bodies until he was standing before their startled hostess with an obviously mischievous expression. When the elf dropped to one knee, Felsi leaned back suspiciously.

"It is best we part ways here, my dear," he began, snatching up the hand not holding the now empty water pitcher and brushing a feather light kiss across her knuckles. "Your radiance, the allure of motherhood that drapes about you like a golden shawl— I am at the knife's edge of my willpower, and I value your robust gentleman's friendship too much to give in to my desires. No, hush." Pressing his fingers against her lips didn't earn him a slap, but Felsi's cheeks did darken ever so slightly. The woman looked stunned at the display, but also strangely flattered. "It will take time, but I will mourn what might have been—"

"Hey! Keep your slimy sodding mitts to yourself!" Oghren staggered forward menacingly, and Zevran retreated without further argument. A few teetering steps later Oghren had Felsi's rounded body pulled tight against his side. "Bloody Antivans. Don't you have a leash for him or something?"

Leering at the suggestion, Zevran stroked his long fingers sensually down the bronze skin exposed at his throat, just above the clasp of his cloak. "Ah, only when I am especially naughty, dear Oghren. Would you like to see?"

"Oghren, damn it, stop squeezing me! You tin-plated oaf— I'm likely to pop." Felsi was squawking indignantly at being manhandled, but she didn't appear to be struggling. Chuckling warmly, the Commander held out one beckoning hand.

"Come, Zev. Alistair would be terribly put out if he missed Oghren walloping your arse." With exaggerated obedience, Zevran sauntered over and clasped her waiting fingers with his, but rather than kiss he licked a broad stripe across the leather of her glove. Apparently, her lover was feeling quite inspired, even after the previous evening's performance.

"I am your servant,_ mi amora_," he purred, and yes, he certainly was in an interesting mood. Then he winked, and turned back to face a glowering Oghren. "You have reminded me of something with all your blustering, my friend. A thought: if the baby is a boy, _Zevran_ is a very beautiful name, or even _Alistair _if you were so inclined. We've been through so much together, after all."

A few of the recruits began to snicker, while Oghren merely narrowed his eyes.

"Yeah," he growled dryly. "Well, we thought about 'knife-eared swisher,' or 'whiney sodding dust-brain,' but they didn't look right on the birth rock. You know how it is."

"Ah, of course." Flashing a grin so wide it exposed his eye-teeth, Zevran didn't appear especially putout by the snub. "It was good to see you, you grubby little degenerate."

"Ha," Oghren barked sharply, then jerked his head in the direction of the looming mountains on the horizon. "Get gone before I break you in half, you willowy nug-licker. And don't forget my sodding lichen, or you ain't getting so much as pissed on next time you're through, let alone another night or two in these fine accommodations."

"Yes, ser," she said indulgently, dipping a small bow.

* * *

Carran liked horses. Horses were dependable and strong, and so long as you were kind and had a bit of sugar or an apple, horses tended to be quite friendly.

He'd never seen a horse eating another horse, or a horse eating a person. When he looked at horses, he didn't remember those nights. When he talked to horses, he didn't imagine their faces rotted away but still groaning, biting, chewing.

He was getting better with people— truly better, not just better at hiding it. He'd never let his discomfort show, except in the very dead of night, when he was sure Soren was asleep on the other side of their room. Now though, over a year removed from the horror, he rarely had nightmares anymore, and it was even rarer that he'd slip into the waking visions of those same dreams.

It was possible to survive just about anything, his Da used to say, but it took real strength to live again. Da knew, of course. He'd lived through the Orlesian occupation, lost friends and family to foreign swords—even lost his first wife and two babes in some way that made his eyes darken whenever he heard a woman's scream.

Carran remembered one time when his mum, his Da's second wife, had found a nest of rats behind a sack of grain. Huge grey things, with sharp little teeth and mean little eyes, and his mum had scooped him and his sister up, one in each arm, and leapt onto the kitchen table with a shriek. He'd been eight, and sturdily built for his age, and Rosie had been nearly ten, but their spindly little mother had a grip like iron.

Their Da had burst in not a moment later, crutch nowhere to be seen and staggering on his one good foot, but what Carran remembered most was the look on his face. Panic, _terror_, so fierce it twisted the old man's expression into something almost unrecognisable. At the sight of it, his mum seemed to forget all about the scampering, hissing rats, leaving her children on their perch and rushing to her pale, panting husband's side.

Da had lived through misery, and come out a decent, loving man. He'd even lived through the monsters, locked up in the root cellar with his wife and daughter-- if the Orlesians hadn't taken half his foot and crippled his sword arm, Carran had no doubt his Da would have been right at Mayor Murdock's side the whole time. Daft old fool.

"Car?" Blinking the memories away, Carran glanced down at where Amery was striding along beside the wagon. "Try not to let the horses wander as much as your mind, eh?"

"I've got it." He really had been daydreaming, and he tugged the reins in as subtly as he could manage. They weren't about to end up in the woods, but they'd drifted a bit all the same. The Commander wasn't sitting with him, and the seemingly endless road stretching out in front of them was getting tedious all alone. "Here," he said, scooting across the bench seat. "Jump up, if you figure you can make it. My mind's gone all muzzy, and company'd be appreciated."

They weren't travelling fast enough on the slushy road to make such a climb too challenging, but Amery groaned and grumbled all the same as he clamoured up. "My boots and I thank you, kind ser." Amery was all legs, folding his slim frame into a comfortable slouch, but it was his face that made Carran chuckle.

"You're dripping." Motioning to his own nose, Carran made a wiping motion, and Amery turned red enough that it almost made up for the crack he'd made about swimming in Lake Calenhad. Still, Carran was polite enough to turn his eyes back to the road as Amery hastily dragged the edge of his cloak over his nose, and to change the subject as well. "So was Oghren and his ale all you'd hoped for?"

"Maker's mercy, Car," Amery scoffed. "I can still see, feel my feet, and all. Hardly the incredible gut rot it was lauded as."

"Tell that to Alistair and Leofric." Glancing slyly at the other man out of the corner of his eye, Carran fought to keep his expression serious. "And didn't you only have about a mug and a half, anyway?"

"Two and a half, thank you kindly." Leaning back against the canvas, Amery laced his fingers over his flat belly. "And I'm delicate— willowy, even. Alistair and Lovey are built like brick shanties."

"Andraste preserve us, don't let Leofric hear you call him that again. He'll fluff up like a wet hen." A hole in the road made the wagon shudder slightly, and their shoulders bumped together— not dissimilarly to the way they'd bumped together the evening before, sitting next to each other on that hay bale. Carran couldn't help smiling, remembering Amery's surprising blush when he'd been caught leaning close, trying to sneak a glance at Carran's cards. "You're a nutty bugger, you know that?"

"It's been mentioned, yeah." They were coming up to a rather sharp curve, and the road was getting steadily bumpier as the mountains grew larger on the horizon. "I'm not as mysterious or intriguing as some, for certain."

Too busy making sure the horses stayed on course, Carran missed the expression that accompanied the words, but he thought he heard something strange in the tone. "Hm? You all aflutter about our new companions as well, are you?"

"Oh, hardly. I _am_ all kinds of nervous about why we need a pair of mages in the first place, though." When an elbow jabbed his ribs lightly, Carran grunted exaggeratedly. "Have you got any thoughts on that matter?"

"Well the Joining's got some magic in it or something, I suppose." Shaking his head, he shifted the reins into one hand and rubbed the crunchy feeling out of his left eye. The wind was sharp, but the sky was clear and the snow on the ground was too wet to blow about. "Or maybe we're going to train with them. Darkspawn use magic too, remember."

Amery was quiet for a time, except the tapping of one boot heel against the wood of the wagon. The sound was actually more soothing than annoying. Carran left him in peace; the firebrand of a man rarely took time to simply reflect on things, and Carran was sure a little calm would do him good.

Then, eventually, he spoke. "You know what, Car?"

"Hm? What?"

"You're a rather surprising chap."

It didn't matter that there wasn't any malice in his voice, or event a hint of humour; Carran still felt his hackles rise. He was tired, and fighting hard to keep his anxiousness from showing— the growing tension among his companions and the ominous promise of the Joining were weighing on him.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, he was snapping back before he could check himself. "Am I? Surprising that I can lace my own boots, or that I can think and drive these horses at the same time?"

"Whoa, mate." Amery sounded as shocked as he should have been; there'd been no call for that. Taking a long, deep breath through his nose, letting the cold bite his lungs, Carran worked to compose himself even as a long, narrow hand settled hesitantly on his forearm. "I'm… I'm sorry if I've got your back up. Maybe I—"

"It's not you." He still had a free hand, and he patted Amery's wrist gently. "And I'm the one who's sorry. I'm being tetchy for no reason, when you're kind enough to keep me company. You weren't even teasing me, and I got all riled like a fool." It was so difficult sometimes, living up to his new life. He'd been so angry for such a long time that sometimes it just felt natural. But no, it wasn't— he'd been a stupid, selfish boy, and he was a better man than that now.

"It's all right." Amery wasn't moving his hand, curling his fingers around in a grip that felt like it was staying for some time. It was a relief that his own stupid bloody temper hadn't driven the man off. "I do tease you though, but I'm just an arsehole. You know that, right? That I don't mean half the rubbish that comes out of my mouth?"

"Yeah, I know." And he did know it. Maker's breath, you didn't feel a proper part of the group if you didn't suffer the occasional chaffing from Amery— it was one of the dozens of little quirks he'd come to appreciate, here with his new family. He was back in control of himself; lightening the mood was definitely in order. Tilting his mouth up into a small smirk, Carran shot Amery a sideways glance. "But which half, eh?"

Amery's mood didn't look especially lightened, with his lingering frown and the seriousness darkening his usually playful eyes. "I don't mean the half where I pretend you're some rube just crawled out of a turnip patch. I _do_ mean it when I say you're surprising, and mysterious, and intriguing."

"I— oh. Well." He'd been so caught up in trying to do well and be good, trying to live up to the faith the commander had placed in him… had he really missed something here? "I'm, uh, really not that intriguing, am I? I'm just a farmer's son, Amery."

"Even if you weren't almost a Warden," Amery said quietly, staring resolutely at their boots. "You'd be more than that. The Commander doesn't recruit just anyone— hey, you didn't even see the stream of poor, disappointed clods she turned away when Amby and I joined up. Warriors and knights, nobles even— dozens of 'em. You're _special_, Car; the lot of us are." Perhaps he was losing his mind, but there seemed to be more to the compliment than friendly reassurance. Carran hadn't really considered much past becoming a Warden, and he certainly hadn't expected that _Amery_, of all people— "And you look like I'm making you _wildly_ uncomfortable, so I think I'll just shut up." The hand that had been resting on his bracer retreated, and though Carran hadn't been able to actually feel the touch, he was strangely aware of its absence.

"What? No, it's just… I'm, huh, I'm not uncomfortable." Truthfully, he was a bit, but that was just because he'd been caught off guard. His mum had never really approved, but Carran was hardly a stranger to cosying up to another bloke.

"Oh, yeah," Amery muttered softly, tapping his palms on his knees in a motion Carran recognised clearly as embarrassment. "You're a vision of calm. And I'm a qunari."

"No, wait. Just… listen." There were things he'd promised himself: he would always strive to be kind, or at least polite; he would be straightforward, because beating around the bush was a waste of time. These were the rules of his new life, his second chance.

They did not, however, always make his life easier.

Amery was sitting there, waiting for whatever it was he was meant to listen to, and Carran forced the words to come— _straightforward_.

"So when you flirt with me," he began, not even sparring a glance at the others trailing the wagon. "You're truly serious about that?"

There was a long, heavy pause, before Amery finally chuckled with nervous amusement. "Maker have mercy, you actually noticed."

There'd been a time when Carran would have been up for a quick tumble— it'd be sweet, or rough, or anything in between so long as he'd get what he wanted. Most importantly, it would begin and end on his terms. He'd been a right bastard.

In not so many words, that was what he needed Amery to understand. Shoving doubts aside, Carran reached out and curled his fingers round one of the hands still tapping out an unsteady rhythm on Amery's knee. Still, he was nervy enough that he kept his eyes on the road.

"I'm not used to this. I, well, I wasn't a nice lad," he said awkwardly, unwilling to linger too long with the memories. "And I treated willing blokes with less respect than they deserved. I'm not about to make the same mistakes, all right? If you're serious, then… yeah."

"Yeah?" The surprised hopefulness in Amery's voice was appealing, and Carran felt a heat he'd barely been aware of start to stir deep in his belly. "But, uh, not a _nice lad_? Granted, the Order's hardly a haven for the sound and well-adjusted, but it sounds like there's a story there, mate."

He didn't like resorting to deflection, but he liked the idea of continuing this line of conversation even less. Squeezing Amery's fingers, then carding his in between so he brushed the other man's knee, Carran quirked his mouth mischievously.

"I'd hardly be all _mysterious_ and whatnot if I gave away such stories in one go, would I?"

* * *

Leofric's face was ashen, but his steps never faltered as he strode along with the rest of them. Redcliffe trained its knights well— though likely feeling that special kind of pain that only came from imbibing Oghren's bottled death, the man wasn't even dragging his feet.

Zevran was somewhere ahead, scouting with Ambrose, and Alistair was still hiding in the dark of the wagon. She'd taken the opportunity, without the distraction her lovers could so often cause, to socialise with the recruits and their newest companions. She'd been fascinated when a simple question from Remya to Llyr had lead to a lengthy discussion about Chantry influence on lyrium trading, but eventually the Commander was struck by a realisation. She waited until her brood had settled into chatting amongst themselves before she acted.

"You've been rather quiet this trip," she began by way of greeting, sidling up to Leofric and keeping her voice subdued. "Is everything well? Besides how you're no doubt suffering this morning, I mean."

It was clear she'd startled him, appearing at his elbow like a wraith, but to his credit the man composed himself promptly. "I thank you for your concern, Commander," he said, slowing his pace just slightly. "But I've nothing untoward to report."

Shaking her head slightly, she sent the genteel warrior a kind look. "Not loosened up yet, ser knight?"

The twitch of his lips was all the smile she received for her teasing question, but it was enough. "No, Commander."

"Ah, well." She hated to bring this up, but it was too important to leave be. "Nothing untoward with our mutual acquaintance, then?"

Just as she'd expected, any growing humour drained out of the man's expression. Regardless, his answer was crisp and courteous. "As I said, Commander, I have nothing to report."

Certainly, she knew how crucial information could be, but between politics and the wellbeing of her recruits, there was no contest. She'd pack up and take the lot of them to the Free Marches, if it came to it. "Leofric, I know you offered to keep me informed, but I can only imagine what a difficult position you're in. Please, do not feel obligated to continue this, especially now."

"But ma'am, I—" She watched his teeth click shut, and heard the deep breath he inhaled through his nose. "Perhaps you are correct," he conceded eventually, after a few moments of tense silence.

"I need your focus to be completely clear," she continued, aware that their quiet conversation was beginning to draw attention. "The Joining is far too dangerous for any of you to attempt it with a conflicted mind, or heart."

It took a certain kind of person to make an effective spy, and Leofric's sense of honour was simply too rigid. Apart from that, Eamon had clearly attempted to send the least obvious infiltrator possible— it hadn't worked of course. Perhaps the arl had forgotten that the Warden Commander he was determined to keep an eye on had been weaned into politics so bloody and underhanded they put the machinations of human nobility to shame, and that she had in her loyal company an accomplished Antivan Crow.

Then again, Zevran's presence and past were not things they shouted from rooftops (Crows tended to nest there, after all), and the political affairs of Orzammar were hardly well known topside. Ignorance did not make the blunder any more favourable for Eamon's scheming, however.

Leofric was frowning, drawing himself up into a stiff posture. "You have my complete loyalty, Commander."

"I know, Leofric. I don't doubt that." She should have refused this from the beginning, when Leofric had come to her less than two months after his recruitment, overcome with shame. She'd known he was a spy, and that he seemed rather regretful about the whole thing, but so long as Zevran was covertly monitoring the knight's messages to his arl, the Commander had been content to allow the espionage to continue. Let Eamon have his moles— she had nothing to hide from the wily bastard.

But Leofric was such a principled man, a promising recruit, and eventually the deception had weighed on him too heavily. If spying had obviously been too much for his sensibilities, the Commander was unsure why she had agreed to this fool plan.

Dropping her voice to a murmur, she spoke quickly. This was a conversation more fitting for a private meeting in camp, but she could not allow Leofric to stew any longer. "Tell Eamon whatever you like, but you are not to report to me on this issue any longer. You've done well, and I am very proud of your service, but your days as an intelligence gatherer have come to a close. I'll have no discussion on the matter— that is an order, recruit."

Lowering his eyes in what she hoped was mostly relief, Leofric licked his lips. "Yes, Commander. I will… inform the arl of my dedication to the Wardens when we return to Amaranthine."

Nodding, she hooked her thumbs in her belt as if nothing at all problematic had just been broached. "Good man."

That was one issue dealt with, but there was still the rather prickly matter of Soren. She had hoped that the man would have shed his foul mood when the Kinloch village disappeared behind them, but every mile they'd travelled since early that morning seemed to deepen his scowl.

She knew from her research into Riordan's files that faltering resolve almost guaranteed a recruit would not survive the Joining— it had been recorded time and time again. Well, she wasn't about to lose anyone to a bloody tantrum, no matter how serious the cause.

For that issue, she would wait until they made camp. There was no need to air that particular dirty laundry out for all to see, and perhaps if she treaded carefully, she could convince her fellow dwarf to open—

"Hey! Commander!" She glanced up, alarmed by Amery's unexpected shout. He was leaning around the high canvas cover of the wagon, pointing farther up the sloping trade route on which they travelled. There was a figure just coming into view, jogging towards them at some speed. She sliced her hand sharply through the air, and the wagon rumbled to a slow stop.

Amery jumped down from his perch, meeting her beside one of the large, muddy wheels. "It's Ambrose," he said, crossing his arms loosely. "And he doesn't look like he's out for a leisurely stroll."

"Come on," she snapped, and the palms of her hands began itching. This felt like danger. "Carran, follow with the wagon. The rest of you with me, double-time. Alistair—" She was able to lift a small section of canvas, and the steel in her tone created a clumsy scramble in the shadows. "Might be trouble, love. Get up."

"Yeah," came the hoarse reply, and she knew he'd be at her back within a few moments.

Ambrose was panting hard when he finally skidded to a stop before them, but after a quick wipe of his brow and a great gulp of air he started talking quick and clipped. "Bandits, 'bout half a mile ahead. Lots— more than forty, I think."

Forty wasn't terrible, but twenty would have been better given the way her head was aching. Still, it was better than forty ogres. "Where is Zevran?"

Ambrose shook his head, finally catching his breath. "He's in the trees, leading them about like a blighted kite. They've got mabari and archers, the _bastards_, and the whole bleeding forest is rigged with traps. From the mess, it looks like they slaughtered a caravan recently."

"Forty-odd bandits?" Alistair grumbled somewhat good-naturedly, tightening one of the straps of his breastplate. "You woke me up for that?"

"It'll get your blood pumping." Fingering the vials of poison and other surprises strapped securely to her belt, she turned to the throng that assembled anxiously around her. "Marion, have you got any combat training?"

The mage, who had gone a bit pale under her swarthy colouring, shook her head. "Ah, very little, I will admit readily."

The Commander glanced back up the road, her mind already alight with thoughts of what might be waiting, but there were enough skilled combatants on their side, plus one mage she knew could hold his own. "You'll stay with the wagon then. The rest of you, watch each other's backs, keep a sharp eye out for traps of all kinds if you're able, and be aware of where Llyr is at all times. You're far more likely to accidentally step in front of one of his spells than stab each other." They'd dallied too long already, especially with Zevran left on his own. Bad odds, hounds, and archers sounded like more of a challenge than she'd willingly leave for him to mop up alone.

"Wardens," she said, rolling her shoulders. She was already prepared to set the pace at quite a clip— partly for Zevran's sake, and partly to show the tall folk how dwarva could move. "Let's go see what's going on before Zev has all the fun."

* * *

_AN: By all the tits of my ancestors, I'm so sorry this took **so goddamn long **to finish. My mojo just... fizzled, but I think we're good now. I've been trying to find a writing schedule that works with the new job, so more regular updates should be coming in the next few weeks. _

_Just to let y'all know, I've got this motherbitch mostly plotted out, so it's not like I'll hit a story block before it wraps up. No worries there, dear readers. Also, for those of you interested in such things, there will be more "scenes of an intimate nature" in Chapter 12 or possibly 13, and more Ali/Zev on the horizon as well. _

_Also, I'm in the process of writing an Awakening fic (because I am a crazy person, and my brain demanded more fic_—_ MOAR). It's Nathaniel/OrlesianF!PC, and at least the first part of it should be up soon-ish. Keep a weather eye open, if that sounds like your cup of tea.  
_


	12. Chapter 12

_AN: Be advised, there's a bit of gore ahead._

_

* * *

_The forest was alive with shouted curses and the crashing sounds of large men moving through thick brush. Zevran watched with no small amount of amusement as a pair of the miserably confused bandits stumbled across one of their own claw traps— the one he'd made sure to hide a bit better than where they'd placed it (and a few feet farther to the left). The bald one screamed like a priestess caught with her skirts up when the vicious iron teeth bit into his calf, and the ugly one looked nearly ready to piss himself at his comrade's distress.

Chuckling as softly as a morning breeze, Zevran sunk deeper into the shadows of his perch. Unless Ambrose had gotten caught up, the lad should be returning quite soon with the others in tow. It was good, because regardless of the fun he was having, Zevran was getting quite tired of avoiding the sensitive noses and ears of mabari.

It was difficult to determine the exact number of witless thugs milling about, but with the five he'd managed to disable thus far, Zevran didn't put them much above thirty or forty strong. Still, he'd counted a half dozen mabari before he'd taken to the trees, and that increased the danger significantly. The dogs also meant it was very likely that not all these bandits were foolish yobs— it took a certain skill and cunning to keep and train mabari well.

At first, with all the traps and the rather impressive kill zone set up on the trade route, Zevran had feared it was the Crows' work. He still wasn't entirely certain there weren't any of his former brethren somewhere in the rabble, but given the sloppy reactions, he was reasonably convinced the entire business wasn't for his benefit.

The bald bandit's screaming had diminished into desperate sobbing as his companion attempted, rather squeamishly, to undo the trap. It was quite a large, heavy maw of a thing, and Zevran had little doubt the thick teeth had broken the miserable bastard's shinbone. He could hear other bodies in the snowy undergrowth, at least one or two of them hissing at the bald man to shut his gob, but then something else peaked his interest.

A quiet trilling from quite near by— the mating call of the female White-Footed Falcon, a bird rarely found farther south than the arid wastes of the Drylands. How fortuitous, for he knew that such birds were magnificently brutal in the protection of their mates and their nests. Curling his lips into an incredibly pleased smirk, Zevran whistled back.

_How good of you to come, my love._

Of course, not all of his sweet Warden-pups were as stealthy as they could be; they had their strengths, of course, but some took after dear Alistair more than he. Zevran braced himself to descend from his roost when the moment was right, and soon enough there came an almighty crashing— some ten yards away he'd wager— followed very swiftly by shouting, barking, and the clang of swords. They'd started the party without him.

The two unfortunate men below barely had time to glance up towards the racket when Zevran dropped soundlessly onto the forest floor. Their armour was surprisingly good, but the element of surprise was his, and the uninjured one barely had a chance to struggle at all before Zevran had his head bent back and his throat laid open. The bald man, his leg a gory mess already, shrieked a curse and tried to scramble back across the patches of slush and snow— with one smooth movement around the now limp body falling away from him, Zevran buried his blade hilt-deep in the soft flesh at the base of his skull.

He was in a bit of a rush, and he'd managed to get blood all over his hands in the process of dispatching the unlucky pair. Sighing, Zevran wiped the mess off on a clean patch of snow, then rose from his crouch and drew his sword. He'd keep to the shadows as much as possible, but it was likely that the melee making such uproar so close by would necessitate more straightforward combat.

He was moving like a wraith through a thick copse of pine when another bandit, this one elven and red-faced, came tumbling into the scrub as if something had pushed him back with great force. It was a perfect position for a firm kick to the head, and Zevran obliged— the strike would have knocked him unconscious, if the massive axe hadn't chopped hard into the prone man's leather-clad stomach almost simultaneously. Zevran glanced up, blades at the ready because truly, one could never be too careful, and favoured Soren with a friendly nod.

"Watch your back," he advised the bull of a dwarf, then darted out of sight again.

The chaos was mitigated somewhat by the gratifyingly capable way their recruits were fighting. Attacks were quick and precise, flanks rarely exposed, and they appeared to be working together quite handily in the little groups they'd broken into. Then he caught sight of Alistair— the man was scowling as he slammed his shield against the snarling jaws of a charging mabari, and then lashed out at the bandit closing on his right as the dog staggered. Before Zevran could assist his lover, there was a roaring sound and an intense heat beating against his back, making him curse and sprint out of his cover. The blasted mages were going to burn the whole bleeding forest down around them, tossing fireballs about like they weren't _all_ surrounded by kindling— it was probably that sour asp of a Rivaini who was so obviously terrified of him.

He was out in the fray now, and with a quick spinning slice that tore the guts cleanly out of the pitiable mabari, Zevran pressed his back against Alistair's.

"Hello, handsome," he purred, earning himself a relieved glance over one shoulder.

"I see you're still in one piece," Alistair said by way of greeting, then jerked his attention back to parrying the mace blows the bandit was raining down towards him.

Laughing brightly, Zevran slid around and slipped under their foe's defences while Alistair distracted him, snapping the man's elbow with a powerful twisting wrench using his own bodyweight. The bandit bellowed with pain for only a heartbeat before Alistair's sword cleaved through his neck.

A quick survey of the battlefield showed only a handful of bandits still standing and not on fire— the rest were already bodies, or very soon to be. Weapons were being tossed aside, arms being raised in surrender, and Zevran was well acquainted enough with his benevolent dwarven temptress to know that these men would need to do something truly idiotic to earn their deaths at this point.

Speak of the goddess, and she shall appear— blood splattered across her face and looking grim, she strode purposefully towards the huddle of bandits now completely surrounded by Wardens on one side, and a wall of flame on the other. The recruits, to their credit, had not relaxed their fighting stances at all and looked poised to strike at their Commander's word.

"Llyr," she called, not taking her eyes from their cowed opponents. "Put that sodding fire out."

So not the Rivaini, then. In fact, their little band seemed to be missing a pair of members, and for a moment Zevran felt a flicker of worry, but no, Carran would have been left to guard the wagon.

There was a great gust of frigid wind, picking up the snow and swirling his hair about as it blew towards the crackling flames. One of the six remaining bandits dropped to his knees, and it appeared as if the man began praying. Zevran resisted the urge to roll his eyes— definitely _not_ Crows.

"This was quite an operation," she continued after a few moments, when the fires gutted and the winds began to fade. Twirling her sword made the rabble of captives flinch, but she merely planted the tip in the ground like a cane and adopted a calm, curious stance. "Do you have a financier, or was this a particularly ambitious entrepreneurial venture?"

The bandits were gaping, shifting nervously, and with an audible exhale, the Commander elaborated. "You working alone, or did someone pay you to set up here?"

"Some dwarf," the tall one in the middle blurted, then immediately began back-pedalling. "I mean, uh, some dwarven fella, ser. Hired us as mercenaries, a couple companies, some freelance. Paid buckets of gold— said we'd get more once we ran off whatever of the Queen's men tried to come through in the spring thaw. Not too much killin' but enough to send a message."

Few other people would have noticed the way the apparently unruffled Commander's back tensed, or the tightening of her jaw. Zevran did. "I need a name," she said coolly. "And before you yammer on about not knowing his name, just take a moment to consider how much you enjoy your innards. About how much you'd hate to have them spilled all over your boots."

"Forender!" One of the others cried desperately, hugging his middle. "His name were Forender, ser!"

There was a heavy pause, and suddenly the futures of these men seemed much less certain. Zevran shifted his feet, and beside him Alistair adjusted his shield.

Very slowly, the Commander lifted her sword to point at the grubby little man who'd spoken. "Think hard. _Dulin_ Forender?"

"He didn't say!" The man was nearly blubbering now, his compatriots shuffling away from him. "I swear, by Andraste's name, I _swear_ he didn't say!"

The sword did not waver. "If you were meant to wait for the Queen's men, why did you attack a merchant caravan?"

The tall man who'd spoken first laughed a little hysterically. "Cause we're bloody morons, apparently, and greedy. We had the men and the blades, and the caravan had a half-dozen guards. A fat mark."

"Of course." The dripping sarcasm was actually a good sign, and with a flick of her wrist she waved the blade vaguely in the direction of the deeper woods. "My companions and I travel often, gentlemen, especially in the places we hear bandits and other disreputable characters are lurking about. You would do well to remember that if crime ever again seems profitable. If I meet any of you again, you had better pray you're not on the wrong end of my sword— I am lenient only _once_. Now get gone."

The bandits were skittish, confused, but after a brief frozen moment the lot of them scrambled off through the hoary trees. Hardly surprised at the outcome, but rather disturbed by the information they'd just received, Zevran bent to wipe his blades clean on the snow before sheathing them. Reaching up to affectionately ruffle Alistair's flattened hair when the man pulled his helmet off, the pair of them trudged over to their sombre Commander.

"Something is going on," she said quietly when they approached, peering around at the collection of corpses lying charred and broken around them. "And I _will_ get answers."

* * *

Marion was anxious, keeping a close eye on the nearby forest while her Warden keeper clucked and cooed at the enormous horses. This Carran wasn't nearly so stupid as he appeared, she could tell, and that set her even more on edge. Why play the simpleton? There were any number of reasons, but none of them bettered her trust in these Wardens; it merely reinforced her lack thereof.

The din of battle was faint, coming from deeper in the trees, but the fear still ate at her. She hated being outside the Tower; there was danger outside, and no templars to keep her safe from it. If a pack of vicious bandits came dashing out, spoiling for a fight, the best she might be able to do was shriek them into submission— not that the extent of her deficiencies were anyone's business but her own.

She was shocked Llyr had kept his spiteful mouth shut about it for this long.

When the fireball burst, lighting the treetops, she gasped softly and the horses began to fuss just slightly. Carran tutted, stroking their thick, muscled necks.

"Hush, lads," he murmured, and Marion squeezed her hands into tight fists. She would not show her uneasiness any more than was absolutely unavoidable. "It's all right. There's my good lads. Good lads." He didn't so much as glance in her direction, but she could feel his attention shift. "Nothing to fear, my lady. They'll be back in no time at all."

"I am not afraid," she snapped, realising too late that to be so defensive was hardly proof of her calm. Carran said nothing, and it grated on her.

When the others finally returned, bloodied but largely unharmed, Marion sneered at Llyr's smug expression. It was the Antivan, however, who drew her notice most sharply. She knew that elf— his bearing, his tone, the fluidity of his every move. She knew the darkness hidden deep behind the gleam of his predatory eyes, and the damning lines of the tattoo that marked his cheek.

Marion didn't know what kind of game this Antivan cur was playing, but she would not let her guard down for an instant.

"—no trouble, was there?" She'd allowed her mind to wander, her focus to blind her, but thankfully the half-heard question from the Commander's lieutenant was not directed at her.

"Not a bit," Carran answered, shrugging casually. "Seems you all handled them well enough."

The Antivan was slinking about, smirking. When he slung one arm over Alistair's shoulders and the man didn't shake him off like so much rubbish, Marion could barely contain her shudder. "Ah," the elf exclaimed, looking sickeningly pleased with himself. "That we did. It was marvellous, yes?"

It was too much, especially with the tension still thrumming through her body, and Marion needed to get away. She needed to breath, but the air felt thick and stifling, like she was trussed up in that damn burlap sack again.

She turned, escape her only thought, when that familiar accent wormed its way into her ears. "You missed quite a show, my sweet Rivaini orchid… but you are too delicate for such bloody business, are you not—"

"Keep your insidious flattery," she hissed, jerking back around with eyes flashing. She was too raw, too distressed, and her fury was stoked by the elf's unwavering smirk. "I know that poison, you viper."

Her outburst was drawing attention, and that would not do. If she was to be protected at all in this forsaken wilderness, she could not alienate herself from these Wardens— no matter their painfully unwise choice of companion. With a sharp, dismissive wave of her hand she retreated, stomping purposefully away from the Antivan and the others.

She did not, however, miss Llyr's parting shot.

"Try not to choke on all that bile, fair Marion!" Her face was burning, her hands shaking, but she would not give that smarmy bastard the satisfaction. She would _not_.

* * *

Zevran had done a number of despicable things in his life, and for the vast majority of those things he did not feel even a flicker of guilt. He remembered most of them, however.

It itched at him that he could not recall this Rivaini woman, this _Marion_ (not her real name, he was certain). She certainly seemed to hate him well enough, but he was an affable enough fellow that people tended not to hate him outright. If he were identified after an assassination or a dalliance with someone's sister, daughter, or wife, he could of course understand having some amount of hostility levelled in his direction; such was life.

He was convinced, however, that he had never had the pleasure of meeting this woman before, let alone sleeping with her. Forgetting a face from his past could easily be a deadly mistake, and it was one he did not believe he was making here.

So why the loathing? It seemed almost personal, and that was both strange and strangely intriguing.

They had run across the bandits around midday, just at the mouth of Gherlen's Pass, and the terrain was roughening now that they were heading properly into the mountains. It would slow their pace, and Zevran was unwilling to spend the next week suffering the Rivaini's sour looks, to say nothing of the few days they'd stay in Orzammar and the trip back to the Tower. Whatever it was about him that had drawn the woman's ire, he would discover soon.

In camp that evening, with freshly snared hare and salted beef already roasting over the fire, Zevran began his hunt. He took a few moments to fade into the background of their friendly little group, slowly removing himself from anyone's attention, and then with great care he slipped over to where Marion sat, somewhat removed from the others but still close enough to the fire to keep warm.

Travelling with mages had some distinct perks, and Llyr's clearing away of a great circle of snow for their campsite was quite pleasant. It meant the lot of them weren't squatting or standing around the fire, or searching out deadfall to drag over for seats. The grass Llyr had exposed was a bit singed and the ground still a bit damp, but it was a nice change from frozen arses. Marion was perched delicately on a blanket, with a thin book opened across one thigh while she scribbled something on a bit of parchment— when Zevran caught sight of the Commander's neat, boxy script on the parchment as well, he nearly abandoned his intentions for the evening. As he understood it, this mage was particularly skilled with herbalism and potions of all sorts— if she were working on her preparations for the Joining, he was not so selfish as to interrupt that.

Still, he lingered unseen in the shadows for a time, studying the richly hued woman. She was gorgeous, he would not deny that, with dark almond eyes and chestnut hair falling loose around her shoulders, but there was something terribly broken under her lovely surface that made him yearn to peek under the facade. There was a weakness hidden deeply under layers of brittle armour, and as his curiosity grew, Zevran began to reason out a few of his observations.

Her accent was very carefully subdued, and even her scent was still tinged with spices and heat— not so long removed from her homeland, then. She was forever nervous, but she hid it incredibly well, and even now, squinting at the lines of text before her in the flickering firelight, she did not call upon her powers to ease her strain. Zevran remembered Wynne conjuring up a glowing wisp of light to illuminate her own reading nearly every night, and it had not appeared to be a particularly difficult spell. Then again, he admittedly knew little of such things.

If anyone else had noticed his disappearance from the fireside, no alarm had been raised. When Marion glanced up, however, and her gaze settled on his former seat beside the Commander, Zevran watched as her coppery skin paled to ashen grey. Her hands were shaking, he could see, but she did not make her distress known to the others. It was as he expected— she had been watching him.

Unintentionally, he had indeed distracted her from her work, and so without a whisper of sound he crawled around and lowered himself to sit on her other side. He adopted an utterly innocent pose lounging on the edge of her blanket, and after a long moment of staring across the fire, she finally turned and noticed him.

Her whimper was more startling than a scream would have been, but he did not allow his friendly grin to falter. He'd never actually _scared_ a person to death before, and thankfully the Rivaini did not succumb to her obvious terror— and wouldn't _that_ have been something to explain to his darling Commander.

_I've no idea what happened, mi amora, she simply keeled over at the very sight of me!_

"Good evening, sweet lady," he murmured, keeping his hands completely visible. "I mean no harm, I give my word."

"Any word of yours," she replied quietly, her posture ramrod straight. "Is worth very little. I know what you are, Crow."

"Ah." Her hatred seemed to burn too hot to be caused by such a simple reason; of course she would know he was a Crow, and thus she would fear him, but there must be more to it than _that_, surely. "My former life is well known to my companions, my dear. I am not here on any contract, so you need not be so terribly anxious."

"Leave me be," she snarled fiercely, her body tensing as if preparing to flee. "Or I swear I will burn your _bones_ to ash—"

"_Stop_." The Commander's voice was harsh and loud, cutting through the evening air like a serrated blade. Zevran hadn't realised their exchange had garnered such attention until his lover was glaring across the fire at the Rivaini with steel glittering in her eyes. "Threaten one of my allies again, mage, and you and I will have a very serious problem. Do not test me."

The stress of the day had brought about a return of the colder Commander of the Grey, and Zevran regretted his part in making it so.

"Marion," Llyr spoke up softly, barely moving from his recline between Rimon and Leofric. "Love, I'd hold that tongue."

With a curse that likely would have made the lot of them blush, if anyone but Zevran had understood it, Marion scrambled desperately to her feet and very nearly sprinted into the shadows that darkened the trees outside the ring of tents. At Alistair's questioning look, Zevran shrugged helplessly.

"I did nothing, truly." He motioned to the recently vacated blanket. "But you see? _This_ is the type of reaction I once expected, but somehow never seem to receive in this country. I told you it was not merely my own vanity, _cariño_."

"I'll get her," Llyr sighed, hauling himself up from the grass. "It would be just my bloody luck if she got eaten by something. Save me some rabbit, eh?"

* * *

She was being incredibly stupid, she knew. Cursing, then running away like a child having a tantrum— how very refined and serene she was.

The sun had already set, and somehow the world seemed to grow darker the closer they travelled towards the mountains. When she'd come to Ferelden, she'd come by sea— these Frostbacks made her shiver, and not merely with cold. The trees were eerily quiet, the shadows sinister, but so long as she kept the glow of camp in sight, Marion was stubbornly content to sulk.

She leaned against the trunk of a tall, leafless tree, and somehow the bite of the rough bark against her shoulder was comforting. Grounding.

The bluish radiance of Llyr's wisp preceded the sound of his footsteps, but she didn't turn. When his hand brushed her hair aside and settled warm on the back of her neck, she twisted her face away from the floating light.

"I want to go home," she whispered, and _hated_ how pathetic she sounded. "I am overcome, Llyr."

The magic that crackled over his skin, invisible and unnoticed to anyone but mages and templars, made her own tiny flicker of power stir in her chest. "You've got to pull yourself together, love. We'll get to see what Dagna's always on about, at the very least, and you'll likely _save_ some of those Wardens. You know there's no one who could make that poison any safer. That's something, Marion— saving lives. That should make this easier, shouldn't it?"

His fingers were carding the hair at her nape, making her scalp tingle. Very slowly, she tilted her head just enough to catch his eye out of the corner of hers. "You think me a better person than I am."

She saw the incredulous rise of his brows, and felt her own lips twitch upwards. "You'd better hope not," he said with a snort. "Because I think you're a bitch, and a cheeky one at that— _I'll burn your bones to ash_? Really?"

She allowed the twitch to become a small smile, and Llyr chuckled. "He doesn't know I cannot. It's… thank you for not telling them."

"It's not their business, is it?" When she felt the tug, she followed willingly, resting her cheek against his chest. His other hand pressed gently against her lower back. "I'm not nearly as despicable as you seem to think I am… and neither is Zevran, I'd wager."

It took every ounce of her self-control not to shove him away, maybe even kick him. Instead, she took a deep, steadying breath and stayed stock-still. "You are not honestly defending some Antivan Crow you just met, are you? Defending him to _me_?"

Her tone was _perhaps_ too sharp, but Llyr merely rested his thickly bearded chin on the crown of her head. "I'm telling you to think, to be smart about this, and to just bloody relax, woman. All right? He's not about to bundle you up and drag you back to Rivain— and, if by some incredible twist of fate I'm actually _wrong_ about that, I swear I'll burn his bones to ash before he even makes it to the Waking Sea." The arms around her tightened, and Marion felt her eyes grow hot. "I promise."

* * *

_AN: A little shorter than usual, but I wanted to keep this updating thing moving along. And hey, do you hear that? It's the plot thickening! Oh dwarven politics, you make me sick with both hatred and love._

_Oh, and it's so bloody hard not to fill these author's notes with all this background about my OCs, but I'm just not 100% sure how much of it is going to be revealed before the end of the story. I mean, I've got major plot already figured, but little things like what the hell is up with Marion not being able to cast spells... I just really want to tell you all, but I **can't** yet, just in case. Argh. Nevermind, it just makes me want to write faster._

_I will say that there's going to be another Origins companion making a very important appearance in a while (not in the next few chapters, seriously), and I'm mentioning it here because it's not someone I usually write and I don't want to chicken out. Because as a scene and a plot point I really love it but I'm nervous to write this character, and now that you all know it's coming, I've got to put it in. _

_And FYI: no major Awakening characters will be appearing in Reconstruct. I will write them (and have done; see **Flairer**), just not in this piece. It just... doesn't work.  
_


	13. Chapter 13

_AN: Welcome to Chapter 13 – The Reconstruct Love Boat. Awww yeah._

_

* * *

_"She's asleep," Alistair murmured, dropping heavily to sit beside Zevran on the blanket that Marion had abandoned. Llyr had come back to the fire a short while after he'd gone to fetch his fellow mage, but he'd simply gathered up some meat and bread— enough for two people— then nipped back out into the shadows. That had been hours before, and the recruits had long since begun filtering off to their own bits of camp; with Ambrose stifling a yawn as he stumbled towards his tent, only Zevran and Alistair remained at the fire.

With a long breathy sound, Zevran knitted his fingers and stretched his arms high above his head. "And I suppose she was horribly broody as well, hm?"

The question was laced with not-so-subtle concern, and Alistair frowned down at his own bent knees. "Like a grumpy little bear. Dwarven politics are very much not what we need right now, but it's out of our hands."

"Too true." And speaking of dangerous animals— Zevran was leaning back, sprawling across the blanket in a way that was quite reminiscent of a cat in a sunbeam. Golden eyes were narrowed to slits, glittering in the firelight.

Turning his head very slowly, Alistair fought to keep his expression serious. He was, in fact, concerned about his darling lady, but she'd just kicked him out of the wagon with a growl and a reminder that he had first watch shift.

"Is that show for my benefit?" he asked mildly, waving his hand at his lover's languid pose. Zevran's tongue peeked out, rubbing across the slightly pointed tip of one eye-tooth.

"Of course." Shifting a little, Zevran canted up his hips in a way that might have been construed as simply another stretch, but Alistair knew better. "Between the disappointingly brief skirmish and that foolishness with the Rivaini, I may be developing an ill-humour of my own. You had best distract me before I begin to sulk."

With a huff borne of clearly false exasperation, Alistair laid down, butting their shoulders together. It would have been a more comfortable position without the drakeskin and splint mail they were still wearing, and Alistair found himself missing the softness of his mattress more than he'd expected. Perhaps he _was_ getting spoiled, living in modest luxury for the first time in his life.

Still, life had been somehow easier when all the Warden business he was forced to deal with was about darkspawn. Being looked to as a leader of sorts gave him a headache, and a bothersome little tic like one of the mages hating their Antivan was an example of the exact kind of rubbish that made his brain want to leak out his ears.

Staring up at the dark, somewhat overcast sky, Alistair finally asked what he hadn't wanted to bring up in front of the recruits. "What is the issue there, anyway? And you're completely sure she's Rivaini? There's no Chantry in Rivain; no Circle."

Alistair could imagine the incredulous expression that accompanied the ensuing scoff. "Am I sure? I have been to the peninsula on more than one occasion, you know. Her colouring is clearly Rivaini, and her accent is as well, regardless of how bland she tries to sound."

"She sounds like you." He was prepared for the chastising hand to dart out and smack him, but not for how low it hit. "Ah! Not my bits!"

Dragonbone splints assured that nothing but his pride was damaged (and that was only due to the high pitch of his protest), but the threat was understood in any case.

"You've got wax in your ears again, _cariño_," Zevran growled, and suddenly instead of a cloudy sky, Alistair was looking up at an annoyed, angular face. "And this is hardly what I meant by _distract me_."

"Oh, _fine_," he surrendered dramatically, reaching out to pull Zevran into a kiss. It was softer than the elf's mood might have dictated, but Alistair's restraining fingers tangled his hair kept things calm. Teasing the tongue pressing its way into his mouth, Alistair chuckled affectionately.

Eventually, when armour was beginning to feel too warm and Zevran had relaxed near-boneless against his chest, Alistair pulled his mouth free.

"Did you just undo my belt?" The apparent acceptance of the languorous pace had been a trap; he knew that now. Very dexterous fingers sliding under his codpiece and trousers made him hiss, arching at the unexpected contact. "Maker's _mercy_— you sneaky little—"

"I was this close—" With his free hand, Zevran showed a very small distance between his thumb and index finger. "To stealing into the wagon this morning and demonstrating one of my favourite Antivan hangover remedies." His _busy_ hand was stroking hard and fast, no preamble at all, and Alistair couldn't believe how quickly his mind was fluttering away. "I could show you now, if you're still feeling unwell."

"Zev," he gritted out, heels digging into the frozen ground. "If I— _damn_ it— if you make me come in my armour, you, _oh_, you're cleaning it."

He couldn't feel any specifics through the plating on his thigh, but by the minute, rhythmic movements rubbing against him, Alistair was confident he was not the only one currently _affected_. Yet, Zevran looked unruffled and more than a little smug. "Self-control, my eager little templar. Unless you'd like to flip me round and have your wicked way with me right here in the middle of camp? I certainly wouldn't object."

It was so tempting, even if just to see the look of shock bloom across that self-satisfied face, but there were certain reservations that still clung to him. Not wanting to get all naked and sweaty beside the fire, surrounded by occupied tents, did not seem _unreasonably_ prudish.

"I hate you," he groaned, shoving at Zevran's elbow until the elf slowed his stroking to a more manageable pace. "We can't even go back to the wagon, and you would really, truly have sex right here. You're _killing_ me."

"I am expanding your horizons," Zevran assured him, leaning in to nuzzle hot, wet kisses against his throat and up to his ear. "Not entirely altruistically, I will admit." A sharp nip to his earlobe, and Alistair whined wordlessly. "The fire is warm," came the quiet, husky murmur, and Alistair was grasping desperately at the reasons why this was a _bad idea_. "And I am very willing. At least let me suck you."

_Let me suck you_ was not a thing a person just refused, unless there were _really_ important vows on the line or other critical issues looming. Suddenly his watch shift and the relative lack of privacy seemed almost paltry—

"Maker's mercy," he gasped again, and apparently that was good enough to be considered agreement. Quicker than was _at all_ fair— not that Alistair was about to complain— his armour was deftly unbuckled and pulled down his thighs just enough to allow the tent of his damp smallclothes a breath of nippy night air. Damp, and getting damper when Zevran descended, mouthing him through the straining linen— this elf was the utter bane of his sanity.

There were only two people in the world who'd ever done this to him (and more than once, _incredibly_, they'd teamed up and both done it at the same time); with such a limited group it wasn't too difficult to remember certain quirks, even when he could barely remember his own name. Zevran, for example, didn't mind at all if Alistair pulled his hair a little frantically, which had been quite a surprise. Grabbing hold of his dear lady's hair in a similar situation had earned him a warning, then a pinch and a serious threat regarding biting.

Then smallclothes were pushed aside, and there was heat and moisture, and such a welcome feeling that all of Alistair's thoughts narrowed to a pinprick. That was his excuse for distraction a little while later, though the supposed expert assassin draped over his thighs didn't seem to notice when footsteps began approaching either. That, or he simply didn't care, but the result was the same regardless.

Zevran had been drawing it out beautifully, _torturously_, and Alistair was so very, very close when the panicked curse from nearby made his eyes snap open and his gut turn to ice.

"What the— oh _shit_—" Eddard, wearing a pair of loose trousers and a blush that darkened even down his bare chest, threw his arm over his wide eyes with a squawk. "Sorry— by the love of Andraste, I'm sorry! Going now!" For such a large man, Eddard moved incredibly fast back towards his tent.

It was mortifying, but even worse was that Zevran didn't stop for a moment, and all Alistair was able to do was pray Eddard had escaped fast enough to miss his loud, broken moan when Zevran's tongue moved _just like that_, and his fingers pressed just _there_— and Alistair was lost.

"—obviously exhilarating," Zevran was saying after some indeterminate amount of time, with his head pillowed on the still jumping muscles of Alistair's stomach. "Don't try to deny it."

Rather than waste his breath talking about discretion, Alistair tweaked the tip of one pointed ear, earning himself a thrilling little growl. "Up," he replied, hauling himself onto his elbows. "I'm on watch, and you're coming with me."

As he expected, a sly grin and blatant innuendo followed. "Ready so soon? Oh, I would love to _come_ with you." With a quick turn of his head, Zevran licked a stripe along Alistair's over-sensitised but not entirely uninterested cock. "There is something wonderful to be said for Grey Warden stamina."

Tucking himself away quickly and yanking his armour back in order, Alistair looked down at the smirking elf with some mild annoyance. "And for the distinct lack of Antivan shame, I suppose. Get_ up_."

The camp and forest around them were quiet, the darkness hanging deep with the moon hidden behind the clouds, so of course Zevran disappeared the moment they were away from the light of the fire. Alistair exhaled a long, exasperated breath and started his rounds— he wasn't about to search about for the smarmy bastard, especially not when the elf was more than likely padding along silently only a few feet away. Bloody rogues.

One slow circle of the campsite later, and Alistair's legs still felt a bit watery, his muscles loose, but he managed to keep alert. Not that he expected any trouble, but ambushes did happen.

He was reminded very literally of that fact just as he was about to head back towards the fire.

His lungs emptied painfully when his back was slammed against the thick trunk of a tree, rattling the naked branches above. "No lurking horrors; no stalking beasts," Zevran said softly against his cheek, and Alistair shivered just slightly when too-quick hands began tugging purposefully at his armour again. "Have we been dutiful enough for now, lover?"

He didn't quite have the breath to answer, but his reflexes were still sharp— drawing in a great gasp of air, Alistair slipped his hand up under the kilt of ptergies and pressed the heel of his hand hard against the bulge he found there. Zevran swore harshly, already making a trail of bites and kisses down the side of Alistair's tense jaw.

There had been a time in his life, a rather embarrassingly short time ago all things considered, when the very thought of having sex in the woods would have reduced Alistair to a blubbering, blushing puddle. And with _Zevran_, of all people—

It was still embarrassing, but in a different way. When Alistair considered the man he had become, and set up his current happiness against anything he'd felt before, it simply didn't compare. He felt… mature, and that was such a ridiculous feeling for someone of his age to stumble upon. So much had happened since he'd followed his fellow Wardens to those eerie Tevinter ruins on the edge of the Korcari Wilds; he'd experienced the extremes of both horror and wonder and fought his way through it all, for the sake of the good.

Perhaps _this_ was his reward: to find contentment in such an unexpected place, with two beloved people he might never have met had circumstances been even slightly different.

If so, he'd take it. Gladly.

* * *

You didn't live long in Dust Town if the sound of a nug breaking wind didn't wake you from even the deepest sleep. So it was that when Eddard began to shift around in the tent they shared (not officially; it was technically Remya and Keliani's, but a bit of convincing and a few favours promised had Keliani bunking elsewhere), trying to be all careful and stealthy, Remya latched on to his thick wrist before he'd even sat up.

"Privy," he whispered, deep voice hoarse with sleep. "Go back to sleep, love." She didn't explain how bloody useless that would be; it'd hardly be fair to make the man feel guilty for needing to take a piss. Instead, she hummed a vague agreement as warm lips pressed a kiss against her forehead, and then she stamped down the stupid ache that twisted in her gut when the huge, comfortable body moved away from her.

She knew he'd be right back, but there was a nervy little kid living inside her that remembered exactly what it felt like when the people she lov— _cared_ about didn't come back from the shadows. There were monsters in the dark, and not just darkspawn and other creepy-crawlies.

Alone in the tent, Remya swallowed back the black, bitter memories like stale lichen ale. It was just because they were going back to that sodding cesspit, with its stuffy air and musty, acrid stink— well, not exactly, since she sincerely doubted they'd be slogging through Dust Town. The rest of Orzammar wasn't all that bad, so long as you didn't have a brand or an aversion to vile backbiters.

"Sod," she muttered into the bedroll, already missing Eddard's warmth. She tried _desperately_, every single day he stuck by her side, not to latch on like a cave tick and never let go. Despite what arsefaces like Soren might think, she had an ounce or two of dignity, and she wasn't some clinging, swooning noble hunter.

Still, she couldn't deny the flood of relief that overtook her when she heard the giant of a man stumble his way back inside a short while later. She considered pretending to be asleep, and probably would've if he hadn't been panting like a bronto in heat.

"Hey," she said quietly, sitting up in time to see him yank the tent flap closed with great force. "What happened? Some wild beastie didn't bite off your—"

"_Shhh_," he hissed fervently, and Remya bristled a bit at being hushed, but only until a pair of powerful arms scooped her up, blankets and all. Then his face pressed against her bosom, and without much conscious thought she reached out and cradled his head. He was shaking, just a little.

Leaning in, she whispered right against his ear. "All right, you're worrying me now, yeah? Spit it out."

"Alistair and Zevran," he replied shakily, one broad hand splayed across her back to keep her close as he nuzzled deeper into the curve of her breasts. It was difficult to determine if he was emotionally distraught, or wavering on the verge of insane laughter. "Right out in the open. Holy Maker, it was _outrageous_."

And apparently laughter it was, because just as quickly as she'd been snatched, Remya found herself tumbled gently onto the bedroll with a very large, foolishly grinning man looming over her.

She blinked up at him, still holding his ears. "Alistair and Zevran what?"

Eddard dipped his head close enough that their noses touched, and slid his hands promisingly up under her nightshirt and over her ribs. "Let's just say that our Lieutenant Commander was getting a little… extra attention by the fire. The Commander herself, not in sight."

She scoffed, wiggling in encouragement as callused fingers played over her skin. "Oh you lying duster— no _way_ Alistair's got the stones for that."

"You go check if you wish, but I've already got enough of that image burned into my brain." The ends of his thumbs brushed the underside of her breasts, and Remya felt a promising sweetness begin to curl low in her belly. "I'm fairly certain I heard Alistair _finish_."

Carding her fingers through his hair, which was too soft and fine for any proper man to have and nearly as pale as the hottest iron, she quirked her brow even though he likely couldn't see it. "Should I be worried about what gets you hot and bothered, Ed?"

"No," he said, his tone tinged with sudden seriousness that set her heart fluttering about like a startled bat. "Not unless you've tired of me already. _You_ are what sends me mad, my beautiful lady."

The dark was like a shield, and she didn't need to turn her face away for fear he'd see too much in her expression. Instead, she raised one leg to press against his side, hooking her heel over his back. "Mad is sodding right, giant. I'm still not convinced your noble father didn't ship you off for being softheaded and an embarrassment to your dignified house."

"Flatterer," came the amused growl, and he shifted up just enough to press his hips against her bum; it became very clear that he might be softheaded, but not otherwise.

"Pervert," she countered, trying not to sound as breathless as she felt, but he chuckled anyway and rolled onto his back. She was dragged along as well, without reluctance, and draped herself comfortably over his slightly fuzzy chest. From all she'd seen (just the men in their company really), human men weren't near as hairy as dwarva, and that was just fine by her.

It hadn't been terribly long since they'd left the fire in the first place, though they'd been some of the earliest to sneak off to bed after supper. It also wasn't often that both of them were mostly free of evening duties on the same day. It had been Eddard's turn to dig the privy trench, which had been done before the tents were even pitched, and Remya had helped the twins with snaring and cleaning the rabbits— luck had been with them, and they'd made good use of it.

"You're wearing britches," she complained, even as she dragged her stubby nails down his densely muscles sides. The man had more meat on him than a whole pack of those scraggy little bastards in Dust Town, and truth be told he was a hairsbreadth away from being too big in a couple of ways, but they'd managed to make it all work quiet nicely. Nicer than she'd ever really thought such things could work, and wasn't that just something?

The hands up under her nightshirt migrated down, stroking all manner of interesting spots on their way to the britches in question. "My word, you're right. We've got to rectify that."

* * *

When Ambrose wandered away from the campfire, belly pleasantly full and eyes heavy, he wasn't really considering where his brother had disappeared off to some time before. It wasn't as if they were joined at the hip or anything so extreme, and truth be told sometimes a bit of distance was all that kept them from killing each other. Ambrose hadn't been feeling particularly tetchy the past few days, but he wouldn't fault Amery his breathing space.

Still, there was breathing space, and then there was the completely reasonable time when a man wanted to go to bed. Yawning widely, Ambrose was fairly certain they'd strayed into the latter category.

He didn't consider making a fuss before he opened the tent flap to crawl inside— he'd seen every nasty and shameful thing Amery got up to when left to his own devices, and his bedroll was calling out its sweet siren's song. His mind was fuzzy enough that he actually made the great heaving flop onto his blankets before he noticed their tent had one too many bodies.

"What— oh Maker's holy _balls_," he screeched, scrambling away from the tangle of limbs that filled a generous portion of the tent. "Who— _Carran_? No, _shit_, I don't want to know. I wasn't even here."

Clothing still appeared to be in place, thank Andraste's sweet and blissful grace, but even in the confusing darkness Ambrose could tell the situation was more compromising than he would've preferred, having so recently dived into the middle of it. The air was thick, and already smelled faintly of musk and sweat, and Ambrose beat a hasty retreat before anyone had a chance to say anything.

There wasn't anything else for it— he'd have to bunk somewhere else, and Amery would bloody well be airing his bedroll out for him as soon as they got up the next morning. He certainly wasn't darting back in to get the thing, and they seemed to be staying mostly to their own side so it wouldn't need to be washed, but Ambrose knew that smell too well to be comfortable sleeping in it the next night.

Dashing away from the scene of his embarrassment seemed prudent, and Ambrose wasted no time in skulking off between the other tents. He needed to remember which of the blasted things was Carran and Soren's, which was insult to injury of course, because he was sure the increasingly surly dwarf would be simply _jolly_ when he popped in to spend the night. It'd been near on a week, and whatever in the blighted pit had crawled up his stocky little backside certainly hadn't improved his temper.

"Thrice-damned fucking _arse_," he swore under his breath, stepping carefully through the crunchy, frosted grass. If the world were a just and fair place, it'd be Keliani who was all alone in a chilly tent, and Ambrose could enjoy both a peaceful evening and the friendly company of a pretty elf. Not too friendly, of course, but he was allowed to muse harmlessly.

He was relatively confident that the tent he was looking for was the one currently beside him, but he still rattled the flap cautiously before announcing himself. "Eh, Soren? You in there?"

There was a deep, rumbling groan from inside, then the dwarf's gravely voice cut through the night without even the barest attempt at subtlety. "Yes; get in if you're coming." Despite his surprise at the unexpected reception, Ambrose wasn't foolish enough to question it. Soren was a thick, short lump under the blankets, not even looking up when his new tentmate slipped cautiously inside.

"Can I sleep here?" he asked plainly, maybe a little pleadingly, but the wind was bitter. Soren grunted, not moving.

"If you shut up, keep your hands to yourself, and if you snore I'll smother you. All right?"

It was the best he could have hoped for, realistically. It helped that the tent was actually quite neatly kept, unlike his own, and without another word except a quiet thanks, Ambrose settled onto Carran's bedroll and unfastened his cloak to use as an extra blanket. Very conscious of the noise he was making, Ambrose made quick work of his leathers and shoved them aside, and before too long he was tucking himself snugly under a few layers of wool in just his tunic and smallclothes.

Shut up and sleep was something he could handle quite well, and if Amery shot him even a hint of smugness the next day, he'd slap him silly.

* * *

Carran didn't quite know whether to be amused or embarrassed, but he certainly could guess how Amery was feeling as the man shook with snorting laughter, his forehead pressed into Carran's shoulder.

Sighing just a little, Carran lifted Amery's chin until the man was looking at him through the shadows. "You're not going after him, are you."

It wasn't so much a question as it was a declaration of defeat, and Carran could easily make out the broad, toothy grin he was receiving. "What, and just make an awkward situation worse? I guess you are bunking here tonight after all, mate."

"What a sneak," he murmured in return, but he was man enough to admit his interest outweighed his annoyance at the bit of trickery. "I knew I shouldn't have come in for _just a little while, Car_."

Amery's hands were slowly creeping up under the edge of his shirt, teasing at the muscles of his stomach, and Carran leaned in for another sweet, playful kiss. He was trying to go slow and do this right, but Maker's breath, they were both young, eager men.

A bit of a snuggle wouldn't be too much, and some more kissing. His leggings were a bit tight, getting uncomfortable, and so it wouldn't be too bold to wriggle out of them in a little while. He had a few tricks of his own, and he certainly had an excuse to make Amery squirm for some time before they finally went to sleep.

He'd stay, but if Amery thought he was this easy to manage, the wily bloke had another thing coming.

* * *

"Goodnight, Leofric," Keliani said softly, turning over on her side to face away from the dim glow of the lantern. With Remya otherwise engaged more nights than not, she'd gotten quite used to the stoic knight's presence. He was more of a gentleman than she thought she'd ever met, and his constant concern for her modesty and comfort was almost sweet. "Goodnight, Rimon."

Her fellow elf was a presence she hardly needed to get used to sleeping near, but he was still favouring her with the occasional cold stare for whatever slight he thought he'd suffered. He didn't return her sentiment, and she didn't hear him move at all from the tight, cranky ball he'd curled himself into on the far side of their shared tent.

It was a little cramped, but her options had been sorely limited. The twins were good to have at your back, but not in your tent if you were hoping for an uninterrupted night's sleep, and Soren had been in a particularly foul temper of late that she simply didn't have the patience to tolerate.

She could sense the body lying close by, and even though Leofric even smelled different it was close enough to what she was accustomed that it offered a strange kind of comfort. When she'd been a girl, they'd only had the one room for the lot of them— the tent didn't smell of smoke, grease, and the reek of garbage that pervaded the whole alienage, but having another person near enough to hear him breathing reminded her of her former home.

When the darkspawn tore through Denerim, she'd fought until her muscles burned like she was already dead on her pyre. She and the few others able to handle weapons kept the littlest ones safe, got them out of the city, but after the smoke cleared there was nothing for her there but horrific memories. She had Rimon, and she had a sword, and that was enough.

"Goodnight, my lady," Leofric replied just as softly, with courteousness she was still amazed wasn't mocking. "Sleep well."

With her fingers wrapped around the familiar pommel of her small dagger, hidden under her blankets as always, Keliani couldn't help her tiny, secret smile. Despite everything that had brought her here, and all the trials and sacrifice that no doubt waited for them, she did sleep better here than she had since she was a foolish little girl, still picking flowers from the edges of the filthy streets to braid into her hair.

* * *

_AN: Yeah, that was fun. Just a bit of levity and sweetness before we continue on to Orzammar, and perhaps all turn into grumpy little bears. Or perhaps it'll be roasted nug and bawdy songs for all; you never can tell with them dwarves, you know. _


	14. Chapter 14

The Commander was sitting on the freshly frosted grass, staring unblinkingly into the smouldering fire as the first rays of bright winter sun signalled the beginning of day. Another day closer to Orzammar.

Forender. It was not a particularly large House, but it was well connected. Dulin had remained a trusted steward and advisor to the new king as of her last visit to Orzammar, but that had been some months before. She knew better than most how quickly the political landscape could shift, like the finest sand under one's feet.

She paid no attention as the recruits began to emerge from their tents, sparing the shuffling bodies little more than a dismissive wave of her hand. Her mind was very much elsewhere, whirling with the many unpleasant scenarios that might await them in her former kingdom, and her pack of Wardens seemed content to leave her to her brooding if their silence were any indication.

Zevran was another matter entirely— though in truth, when _wasn't_ he?

"You look so glum, _amora_," he complained as he dropped gracefully into crouch beside her, but despite his teasing tone, an undercurrent of real concern laced his words. When she didn't react to his presence, he leaned very close, brushing his knuckle along the curve of her chin. "Between dear Alistair and I, I am sure we could have banished that frown from your lovely face this morning— had you not snapped at us like a mabari with a toothache and disappeared into the dawn to fret, of course."

Swallowing back a number of undeserved and unkind sentiments, she pressed her cheek lightly against his hand. "I am sorry," she whispered, and forced her eyes to meet his. "Truly. I cannot let this distract me."

"No," he agreed, smiling in a way she knew was specifically designed to hide his sadness. "You cannot." Then he was knocking her sideways with the push of one hip, sighing with contentment when he settled his arse in the spot from which she'd just been ousted.

The grass crunched under her, and Zevran's arm was a calming embrace around her back. Still, she favoured him with a narrowed-eyed glance as she realised the reason for her forced relocation. "Stealing the warm spot? Oh, you sneaky bastard."

"It is the least I deserve," he preened, sitting comfortably in the frost-free circle her bottom had created long before. "For being so forgiving. You know my neck aches without your sumptuous bosom to use as my pillow."

She rolled her eyes, suddenly all too aware of the milling gang of recruits quite nearby. Reaching up, she squeezed the tight cords of muscles just below his skull and dropped her voice to a very low murmur. "Later, I'll owe you a massage. I have a few techniques you might enjoy, taught to me by a rather handsome Antivan."

Pressing into the touch, Zevran hummed in appreciation. "Ah, yes. I will hold you to that, lover."

* * *

Llyr ran his fingers through his hair, tugging a few tangles free while his mind slowly adjusted to being damnably awake. Marion had been a wreck the night before, and calming her down had robbed him of hours of sleep and most of his patience. In fact, if anyone so much as looked at him funny before he had a piss and a bite of breakfast, he might just set them on fire.

Rolling his painfully knotted shoulders— because of course when the hellcat had finally nodded off, she'd been curled against his chest in the most awkward way possible— Llyr stumbled off towards the privy trench. It was _miles_ too early to be up and awake, but he wasn't about to complain about the relatively demanding schedule when the trade off was a fortnight out of the Tower.

"Morning, mage," one of the Wardens said as he passed, and he managed a rather polite grunt in return. Any further interaction would be too much, he knew. He had a simple goal: piss, and breakfast.

* * *

By the time Alistair settled in on her other side, pressing a kiss against the crown of her hair as they watched the recruits put something resembling breakfast together, the yearning to tear a few deshyrs apart with her bare hands had faded somewhat. Whatever was happening in that sodding nest of deepstalkers was of secondary concern— regardless of her blood, and Paragon or not. She was the Commander of the Grey above all else.

At least the recruits seemed in good spirits— Amery especially, it appeared. The normally animated young man was utterly beaming as he sliced thick strips of salt pork and tossed them in the already sizzling pan. It was good to see a bit of joy, and the faintly ruddy tinge of Carran's cheeks every time he was favoured with a grin or a waggle of eyebrows made her smile just slightly. Her dear, secretive little Wardens had no idea how _obvious_ they all were—

The echoing bellow, masculine and startled, jolted her to her feet. The mood shifted instantly from amiable to combat-ready, and the whole company of Wardens were up and tensed before she needed to say a word.

"It's Llyr," Ambrose barked, longsword already in hand. "Saw him heading off towards the privy, Commander."

That was indeed where the sound had come from, and she was moving before Ambrose finished his sentence, feeling Zevran on her flank and knowing Alistair would be hot on their heels. "Watch yourselves," she called back, sparing only a moment's worry for the half-dressed state of most of her Wardens. The mage could have been spooked by a hare, for all they knew.

If it was a hare, she was going to _gut_ him.

The privy had been dug a short distance from camp, just inside the tree line for a bit of privacy— the tree line Llyr appeared to be watching intently as he scrambled backwards across the snow, tripped up in the smallclothes tangled around his ankles. It was ridiculous, and would have been hilarious if not for the blaze his shout had lit in her blood, and the expression of alarm that twisted his face.

"Maker's _bollocks_," he swore gruffly, sparing her and her Wardens a red-faced glance. "There's something in the woods— people, I think. One of them threw a blighted _rock_ at me." There was indeed a rising lump and even a small trickle of blood oozing down Llyr's forehead, and the Commander tightened her grip on her dagger. They were a half-day's travel into the Frostback Mountains, just before spring thaw— there should _not_ be people in the woods.

"Llyr!" Marion darted out like a bolt from a crossbow, snow spraying up as she skidded to her knees beside her fellow mage. The words pouring quick and quiet from her were utterly incomprehensible— she was speaking Rivaini, most likely, and a questioning look to Zevran confirmed it.

"Later," he murmured, watching the exchange between the mages with a curious glint in his eyes, and she was inclined to agree. Rock-throwing people in the woods, after all.

Motioning for her Wardens to be alert, the Commander took a few careful steps towards the trees, eyes peering deep into the shadows. She saw nothing, but the goose egg growing on Llyr's head encouraged her to look harder. Thick evergreen bows dusted with snow, rough trunks rising like stalagmites, but not a flicker of movement. It was dead calm, eerie, until a twig snapped.

Beside her, Zevran raised his sword to point in the direction of the quiet, echoing sound, and there it was— a flicker of movement.

"Hail," she called, keeping her own weapons hanging loose at her sides. "You are discovered, friend. On my word as a Grey Warden, we mean you no harm."

It was still very strange to announce her allegiance so casually, after over a year of being hunted like criminals. Depending on the situation, however, it was a useful card to play for gaining either trust or fear.

The men melted from the trees like spirits, and it had been a very long time since she had felt like such a blind amateur— only four appeared clearly, but there were at least a half dozen more still partially hidden in the trees. It required drawing on every ounce of her steely self-control, but she managed not to flinch at the unexpected appearances.

The men were large, tall and tightly muscled, with hair hanging long and loose around their stony faces. Their clothing was roughly cut, mostly thick furs, and the largest man held a massive, shaggy hound on a leather lead. The dog, formerly as silent as its master, began growling deeply.

Meeting the dog handler's hard auburn eyes steadily, the Commander brought her off-hand slowly up to her chest and dipped a shallow bow. She found herself digging through years of dimly recalled lessons—luckily, the hill folk were considered something of an important subject for young noble dwarva. As much as topsiders could be, they were well respected among her people, and considered a vital link to the surface.

"Warden," one of the other Avvars rumbled, sounding vaguely sceptical, and the dog handler grunted without looking away from her.

"Avvar," she replied without much inflection at all, caught in a stare-down with the imposing barbarian. "You gave my mage a headache. Why?"

Without warning the dog lunged forward, its slavering jaws snapping, and the man was forced to shift his attention for a moment as he yanked the beast back. Despite the ice that settled in her gut, she did not move.

"One of the children was foolish," he said quietly, once the dog was controlled. "We are on the move to a new holding, and that one—" He pointed back towards where she assumed Llyr lingered, and his fingers were thick and stained. "—was pissing on his boots."

She did not know Llyr well enough to be sure he'd keep his tongue in his head should the Avvars insult him further, and it felt most prudent to drop the issue. She raised her chin, allowing her gaze to wander briefly to the other men. "I did not expect to meet your people this far down the Pass, Jarl." It was an assumption to address this man as the Avvars' leader, but the gamble paid off with the barest ease of the tension that thrummed through the hill folk.

The Jarl's broad shoulder shifted in what was almost a shrug. "Do not expect to meet us again," he said, and she was actually relieved at the clear tone of dismissal that accompanied the words. "May Korth show you favour, Warden."

And with that, the Avvars were gone.

* * *

Llyr was very, very glad to see the Wardens— it wasn't as though he couldn't handle himself against whatever was lurking in the woods hurling stones at unsuspecting, indisposed men, but he did appreciate the timely arrival. A head wound wasn't exactly conductive to concentration or magic, and his skull was throbbing.

Then Marion was squealing, making the world spin sickeningly when she all but tackled him. In truth, though, there were worse things than being caught up in the desperate embrace of a beautiful woman.

When the barbarians appeared, he shushed her quickly, wrapping one arm around her slender back as the snow continued to seep wetly into the arse of his robes. Marion tensed at the sight of their visitors, but then again so did he.

His dear, hysteria-inclined lady stayed mercifully silent as the Commander of the Grey spoke with the Avvars, and _that_ was a blessing Llyr would not forget in his evening prayers. He could feel the lump growing and aching just near his hairline, but he wouldn't risk healing it until they were safely away from the hill folk— he wasn't entirely sure what the Avvar reaction would be if he started glowing faintly blue with magic, but he imagined it had the potential to be… unpleasant.

Nearly a dozen times travelling over the Frostbacks in his lifetime, and he'd never seen an Avvar before. First bandits, and now mysterious barbarians far from their usual climes… perhaps it was Warden's luck. If this kept up they might find a dragon next, and wouldn't that be something.

He hardly paid attention to the conversation between the Commander and the barbarian— either it would go well, and they'd all walk away with their hides intact, or it wouldn't. Regardless, Marion was still holding tight to him, and now, in the fresh light of day without her nattering on about Antivans and immanent death, he was able to appreciate it.

Bloody pigheaded, moody, _gorgeous_ woman— she drove him absolutely mad. A paltry little thing like volunteering to accompany the Grey Wardens, and she'd been hissing at him since. It didn't matter, apparently, that it was a rather caring and romantic thing to do— even before Irving had called her to his office, they _knew_ her presence would be less than voluntary, given the importance of keeping as many potential Wardens alive as possible. Llyr had simply anticipated the eventuality, and volunteered first.

Danger, death, and inclement weather: these were the three main areas her ranting had addressed when she heard what he'd done. The walls of the Tower, older than Ferelden itself, had all but trembled with the shouting, and he'd weathered it with relatively good grace.

He wasn't made to spend his life cooped up in the Tower, and she knew that. She had never thrown a fit so incredibly furious before, not even when he was dragging her around for seasons at a time to conferences in Nevarra or colleges in Tevinter. Certainly, she always sulked and snapped like a temperamental harpy, but she did not rave for days about it. She did not glare at him with eyes burning like coals, only to break down sobbing a moment later and not allow him to hold her.

She had never truly made him believe that he might have pushed her too far, until this time.

But now she'd come to him willingly, her cool fingers stroking gently around his injury, and her eyes were soft again. It almost made up for the blinding headache, but he'd be able to take care of that soon enough, Maker willing.

* * *

"Typical," Zevran scoffed quietly, his gaze still steady on the trees as the horde of shadows slipped out of sight. "Life with you is never dull, my dear Wardens."

"Just once," she sighed, leaning against Alistair's hip when his hand came to rest comfortingly on her shoulder. "I'd like for something to be dull. _That_ might be exciting simply for the novelty."

The camp stunk of burning grease when they all shuffled back to the fire, and the tension bleeding away left naught but twitchy feelings in its wake for the Commander. The bacon wasn't ruined, but it was crispier than usual; they settled down to eat in near silence.

She managed to wolf down just enough to slake her hunger for a few hours, but barely tasted a thing. This close to the Stone, were the Ancestors trying to tell her something? Should she listen to the churning of her gut and turn them around, Weisshaupt be damned? Was this Joining going to be an utter cock-up?

Fingers in her hair made her jump, just slightly, but she allowed Alistair to tuck a few loose strands behind her ear. Then he leaned down, pressing a kiss against her brow, and she forced herself to remember a time when things had felt even bleaker. A smaller camp, full of strange, motley friends she missed fiercely, and a suffocating darkness growing in the south. A darkness that had sickened every fibre of her being, soured her dreams, and had seemed unstoppable for so very long. A time when every village or traveller's inn could have meant discovery and disaster, papered with poorly drawn posters bearing her face and Alistair's, always scrawled with promise of reward for the capture of the despicable, king-slaying Wardens.

They'd constantly seemed to be running into trouble in those days, and yet they had made it out safely. They'd ended the Blight, incredibly, and the civil war. Not being able to travel a single road without running into bandits, darkspawn, or wild beasts had been an afterthought.

"Well," she said eventually, once the last of the food was scraped away, and the recruits glanced up nearly in unison. They truly had the makings of such an incredible Order. "That was certainly bracing. Come Wardens, the day is wasting and we have mountains to climb."

It didn't take long to break camp, and she was feeling slightly less fatalistic by the time the wagon was rumbling along the frosty, uneven road of Gherlen's Pass. Seriousness had settled over the recruits, however, as they passed the dark, thick copses of trees and scruffy shrubbery that she knew would begin to thin significantly as they travelled higher.

Llyr had healed himself rather quickly after the Avvars had disappeared, waving off all inquiries about his wellbeing, and now the mage was trudging along using his gnarled, rune-engraved staff as a walking stick. She had been somewhat concerned that the mages Irving supplied wouldn't be able to keep up with the demanding kind of pace she and her Wardens set, but Llyr seemed much fitter than many of the Circle mages she had met (their dear, surprisingly robust Wynne aside). Marion, too, did not appear to be struggling except with her fear— the Rivaini might try hard to hide it, but the Commander was no fool.

"Andraste's grace," Alistair murmured very softly, his words pulling her from her thoughts as he hiked along beside her. "A few hill folk show up, and the brood clam up like they're sneaking around a sleeping ogre."

More than a little wistfully, she thought about the mountains, miles farther south where a certain bard was likely still helping to rebuild a ruined temple. Then she shot him a somewhat mischievous, sideways glance and whispered just as quietly. "If Leliana were here, she'd tell us a story to lighten the mood. What have _you_ got, former-Prince Alistair, hero of Ferelden?"

"A winning smile," he answered easily, reaching down to twine their fingers together, and she did not protest the unconcernedly fond gesture. Raising his voice, he turned his attention out to their dour company. "You know," he began, turning on that very winning smile. "The very first time I travelled through the Frostbacks was with our Commander here, and a very cranky qunari giant."

He did not mention Morrigan, who had also been with them on that expedition to the village of Haven. He never did.

Catching the attention of the recruits was the easy part; easing their tension might be a bit trickier. Truly, the restlessness had been growing for some time, and she could hardly blame them— a glut of secrecy and unknown danger was hardly reassuring.

"A cranky giant," Remya said loudly, her voice thick with amusement and false awe. "Never saw such a thing, myself. Giants I've met are always so pleasant— right, Ed?"

Eddard, striding along nearby with very measured steps, glanced away from scanning the trees to smirk. "Too true, my miniature lady."

If anyone could get away with calling a dwarf _miniature_ in front of the Commander, it was Eddard. It helped that the mood was slowly lightening, as she'd hoped it might.

"You're a big man, Ed," Alistair chuckled, and she squeezed his fingers affectionately. No doubt if Zevran weren't scouting ahead, he'd be a touch enraptured by the man's shift into easy, sincere cheerfulness as well. "But no qunari. Sten was a force of nature, all but unstoppable on the battlefield… and he forever looked as if he just stepped in something very moist and wasn't happy about it."

* * *

It had been a very enlightening kind of day, but now that they had too many hard miles behind them, Llyr was relieved it was over. The Warden recruits had seemed amused, if not terribly surprised by some of the stories with which they'd been regaled, but Llyr had been fascinated. He'd seen an archdemon, true, and liked to think he had some very small part in taking the tainted god down, but some of the horrors and wonders these three had seen sent shivers down into his bones.

Despite the occasionally draconian rules within the Chantry, especially when it came to mages, Llyr was still a relatively pious Andrastian. Marion didn't understand it at all, especially given his general disdain for their templar keepers, but she had her Natural Order to keep her soul at peace. Here, kneeling in the privacy of his small tent, Llyr murmured a few verses of Transfigurations, and considered what was to come.

"My Creator, judge me whole: find me well within Your grace," he chanted softly, forehead pressed to his clasped hands. "Touch me with fire that I be cleansed; tell me I have sung to Your approval."

He heard the tent flap shifting, the sound of another body moving inside the cramped canvas shelter, but did not pause. He was fairly certain who it was.

"O Maker—" She had stopped interrupting his prayers long ago, but he knew he would not be spared entirely from teasing once he finished. It didn't bother him. "Hear my cry: seat me by Your side in death, make me one within Your glory, and let the world once more see Your favour. For You are the fire at the heart of the world, and comfort is only Yours to give."

When he sat up, glancing back over his shoulder in the warm light of the lantern, Marion was sitting cross-legged on the end of the bedroll, watching him with wiry amusement.

"Are you finished," she began archly, folding her hands daintily in her lap. "Speaking to your invisible friend?"

Rolling his eyes, Llyr shifted just enough to turn his dutiful kneeling into a lazy sprawl. "Yes, I am. Don't you have to go sacrifice a small animal to appease the spirit of the mountain or something?"

Her foot darted out, kicking him lightly in the side of the knee. "Your painful ignorance never fails to astound me, even after all this time, you twit."

Abandoning the no-doubt deep, philosophical discussion before it could begin in earnest, Llyr grabbed hold of her slender ankle, rather pleased she'd removed her boots before making herself at home on his blankets. "Should I infer from this unexpected visit that you've considered forgiving me? Or have you come simply to call me names?"

Her mouth twisted into a moue, and her leg wriggled free of his grasp. "Twit," she said again, and he braced himself. She was, almost certainly, just beginning; it would only mean real trouble if she switched to Rivaini. "Ass. Gormless brute—"

"I taught you that one," he interjected, but she ignored him utterly.

"Unthinking fool." Now her voice held a thread of seriousness, and he flinched just slightly from the pain in her gaze. "Cruel, uncaring beast. Hateful, _hateful_ man."

Every word felt like a slap, but he didn't even consider apologizing. "I wasn't about to let you go alone, Marion. I truly don't understand why you're so bloody furious about this."

"_Gulain kel'oa_," she hissed, and he heard the unshed tears behind the fury and the quickly thickening accent. This was just as serious as their former fights, and he very nearly screamed with frustration. "You think I do not see? Even after you were _gutted_, still endless tales about Wardens and adventure. About that _dwarf_—"

It was like shaking off a disorientation spell, and Llyr was forced to hold his incredulous expression in check. "You're _jealous_, you mad shrew. Marion, for Andraste's sake—"

Without warning, she was crawling towards him, and then her hands were latched onto his shoulders like a pair of vices. He contented himself to let her anger lose steam on its own. "You will leave," she nearly snarled, and her fingernails bit sharply even through his robes. "_Ebousha_— you will sneak a drink, and you will be free. Just as you always… as you…"

Pieces were clicking together like that puzzle box he'd bought her years before in Tevinter. She actually thought he'd— Maker's _breath_— the foolish, idiotic woman.

"Marion," he said carefully, bringing his own hands up to rest gently on her hips. "Love, I have no intention of swigging darkspawn blood just to get away from the Tower. I swear." He tugged a bit, drawing her closer; though she was still scowling, she allowed herself to follow the touch, kneeling beside his thigh. "You don't believe me."

"I don't," she agreed miserably, and it twisted something in his chest. "You would leave, given the chance."

Raising his eyes to the canvas ceiling above them, he prayed silently for just a shred of patience. Then, taking a deep breath, he dragged one shrieking, struggling harridan into his lap. "Andraste's flaming pyre," he growled, holding her tightly against his chest even as she thrashed and swore. "Shut _up_, for the love of all that's good and holy. I cannot _believe_ you think I'm such an awful person. I'm actually hurt, Marion."

And he was, truthfully. She didn't answer, but she did quiet down at the sadness darkening his tone, and that was enough for him to continue. "Listen to me, damn it. If I really wanted to leave the Tower badly enough to risk poisoning myself, I'd have disappeared years ago on one of our trips, into Nevarra or the Free Marches, or even Rivain. I won't lie— if the opportunity ever presents itself, without the threat of probable death or life as a wanted apostate, I'll take it in a heartbeat— but not without _you_."

Grabbing hold of her chin, he tilted her head up until she would meet his eyes. There was always such fire in her gaze, and now was no exception, even glittering with dampness. "Llyr," she whispered, trying to turn her face away, but he held her firm.

"No, I said _listen_. I will not leave _you_, Marion. No matter what the Chantry says, I know you are my wife, and I love you. I will not leave."

She choked, almost a sob and nearly a laugh, and when she moved to press her face into the crook of his neck, he encouraged it. "Husband," came the softly breathed word, so very rarely spoken, and only when they were sure of their privacy. Sex between mages was tolerated, but a lasting, committed relationship? A marriage, unsanctioned by the Chantry? One of them would be shipped off to Orlais before the ink on the transfer papers was dry.

He yearned for the simple pleasure of taking her hand as they walked together, as he watched Alistair take the Commander's so adoringly. He dreamed of waking beside her without the knowledge that one of them would be slinking back to an empty bed like naughty youths dallying about. In the Maker's name, the Commander maintained some kind of brazen triad with her human and her elf without even a hint of shame— what _he_ desired was not half so audacious.

Secrets bred secrets, and Llyr couldn't help but think that this entire, agonising argument might never have happened, had they not been so mired in maintaining the illusion. Would Marion have shared her concerns if such walls did not exist all around them?

"I love you," he repeated, taking advantage of a situation where he could express such a sentiment. "Even when you snipe at me for weeks. If you haven't driven me away yet, rest assured I am not going anywhere."

* * *

_AN: Ooooo, Marion and Llyr. They're not perfect, but kind of sweet. For the Rivaini curses, I totally made them up. Imagine what you will, there. _

_Okay, informal poll about Chapter 15— would it be a complete cop out to give you a couple of paragraphs summarizing the rest of the trip (about... six days of travel), then get us to Orzammar? Or would you rather a fleshing out of the trip, with a bit more character exposition as they trudge up the mountain (Orzammar pushed to Chapter 16)? I ask, because the travel can get boring, because Orzammar is going to be sweeeet, and (more selfishly) because I've got a butt-tonne of work and a new Wacom tablet to play with. But hey, I love writing the little bits of interaction too, so we could do that. Seriously, I wouldn't mind. _

_Thank you for reading! _


	15. Chapter 15

It was early afternoon on the sixth day of their journey into the mountains when Zevran and the twins came ambling back, not entirely unexpectedly, from scouting ahead. The had been making relatively good time for travelling with a wagon, and Zevran's silent nod confirmed it even before Amery could start yammering about the great, dwarven statue he saw, carved out of the very mountain.

Orzammar.

"All right," she called back from her seat beside Carran, leaning around the ice-coated canvas of the wagon. Two days overcast meant there had been no chance for the sun to burn off the thick frost. "We'll be arriving in Orzammar before nightfall. Every one of you, listen closely." There was a scrambling of feet as the recruits and the mages quickened their steps, pulling their straggling pace up to walk nearer the wagon, and the Commander forced herself to keep her expression deadly serious. This venture could be tricky, and not simply because of the Deep Roads or the Joining. No, she knew better than most just how tetchy dwarva could be about the smallest slight, and here she was, bringing in a pack of topsiders.

It had taken some time, but the Commander thought she'd compiled an easy to remember, yet fairly comprehensive list of rules for her Wardens' behaviour. "First, remember that once we enter Orzammar, we are no longer in Ferelden. The dwarva are subject to no other rule but their own, and you would do well to behave as if you were visitors in a strange country. You will be, after all."

The wagon shuddered, the front axel creaking as they moved over a rocky patch of road, and she paused long enough for Carran to keep things in order. Once the path was clear again, she continued.

"Keep your tongues firmly in your heads whenever possible. I do not want blustering, arguing, or anything else that could cause a dangerous incident— _nothing_ is more important to my people than honour." Her brand was itching, as it so often did when this topic was broached, but she refrained from scratching at the elaborate inking while so much attention was focused her way. Bhelen had certainly made sure the mark he tried to damn her with could not be easily hidden.

A hand raised, waving from around Leofric's bulk, then Remya elbowed her way clear of the tall folk's bodies. "We staying in the Diamond Quarter, Commander? In your House?"

"More than likely," she replied carefully, keeping the whole truth of their Deep Roads excursion to herself for now. "I will be expected to spend some time in the Royal Palace, but this is not a Paragon's visit. No pomp and circumstance, and if I hear any of you encouraging such foolishness I will flay you."

"So," Alistair cut in, grinning just a little. "To recap, Wardens: the order of the day is shut up."

* * *

These surface merchants truly must have lost their stone sense— she could not understand how they could camp so close to Orzammar, forbidden to enter except so very rarely, and not go mad. Even with the dark and painful memories that clung to her former home, she could still hear the Stone humming, seeping into her bones, and it made the very deepest part of her heart ache.

It took no convincing at all for the guard captain to station a few men around their wagon, and the lack of arm-twisting and palm-greasing was a distinct perk of being respected among her people again. She could tell from the looks on the guards' faces that news of her presence was already spreading like wildfire through dry brush, and she sent a silent plea to her Ancestors that they would at least make it through the Hall of Heroes before the first deshyrs, or stewards, or other political cave ticks appeared.

Alistair's hand was firm on her shoulder, grounding, and Zevran was a comforting presence nearby as he hustled the gaping tall folk in through the massive doors. This was Orzammar, and they should be in awe.

Murmurs of _Paragon, Aeducan, _and_ Grey Warden _followed them through the great hall, echoing faintly through the statues of those chosen few who had come before. There was too much real work to do, a kingdom to rebuild, and she had all but forbid the construction of her own likeness until the city was settled. That had been many months before, and she was somewhat mollified that her wishes had been respected. No huge granite rendering of her waited to greet them— just the smell of dust and the heat of molten rock.

"Andraste's lacy white knickers," someone breathed softly, either Amery or Ambrose, just as Rimon let out a low, impressed whistle.

"Oh you little liar," Eddard whispered, sounding equal parts annoyed and amazed. "You said I'd have to _duck_." Remya's chuckle was nearly lost in the staccato of their footsteps across the smooth stone floors, and the Commander allowed a twitch of a smile to lift her mouth.

The doors to the city proper opened wide just as she began to ascend the short staircase, and she felt Alistair's hand tighten before she saw what awaited them. She had been very purposefully vague in her letter to King Harrowmont, hinting that they would arrive in Orzammar sometime before the end of summer on the surface, and she held out hope that such a gamble would pay off. No more than a night spent in the city itself, then a few days in the Deep Roads… given such little warning, there was only a small chance that a full celebration could be thrown together.

It was a pleasant surprise to find only a half dozen dwarves waiting in the vaulted doorway, and all of them members of her House.

"_Atrast vala_, Paragon," Gorim rumbled, bowing just as deeply and with nearly the same glint in his eyes as he had when she was a princess. Her second was looking rather flushed, and she could only imagine the strain it had caused his bad leg to get to the Commons as quickly as he had managed. Still, her letter to Gorim, encoded and disguised as a simple trade manifest, had been significantly more precise regarding the estimated time of their arrival. The flurry of gossip wouldn't have caught him entirely unawares.

"_Atrast vala_, Gorim," she replied warmly as she crested the stairs, and was able to look upon her first and former love without the bittersweet tang of regret. Dear Gorim, who was a noble now by virtue of his position as head of her House, and who had abandoned heavy red steel plate in favour of a fine tunic and trousers (still reinforced, she could see, with a layer of mail beneath).

She clasped his forearm in greeting, then nodded to the others behind him— younger Aeducan cousins, a nephew of Gorim's— who were some of those chosen to be the foundation of her House. There was something of a gawking crowd assembling nearer the bridge to the Proving arena, and she motioned to her Wardens to remain alert even as she leaned close to speak into Gorim's ear.

"Let's make for safety before we start an impromptu parade. I was rather hoping for a low-key kind of entrance." She felt his amused snort ghost across her cheek, and for the briefest moment she was _home_— a young princess confiding in her most trusted friend, surrounded by her beloved people, and her father was alive again.

Memories were one of many reasons she did not relish returning to Orzammar.

"Of course, my lady," Gorim replied, apparently oblivious to her momentary lapse into the melancholy trenches of the past. She was reminded, quite sharply, that this man no longer knew her nearly as well as he once did. The Blight had changed her… for the better, she believed.

"You all right, love?" Alistair leaned down to whisper very softly as Gorim turned to give orders to his retinue. There was barely stifled concern in his tone, and she flashed him an unexpectedly affectionate smile as she purposefully shook off the beginnings of her saddening mood.

"I love you," she whispered back, reaching up to tug the scruffy length of beard that her lazy lover had allowed to grow during their weeks of travel. "I'm all right. Off we go."

She had never before travelled so efficiently across the Commons, not even with a full regimen of royal guards. They did not pause for a moment, and the growing crowd parted as smoothly as mist— perhaps it was her status as Paragon, or her strange entourage. Regardless, they were climbing the stairs to the Diamond Quarter in no time at all, and the Commander was so relieved at their quickness that she sent a mollifying glance over her shoulder.

"You'll have a chance to look around later," she assured her flabbergasted Wardens, just as the splendour of the unrivalled view and the nobles' estates opened up before them. Even the usually stoic Keliani was sporting an expression of wonder, with her pale eyes wide and her mouth just slightly open. Only Remya and Soren appeared largely unmoved by their surroundings, which was to be expected.

"The Assembly is in session; we might make it," Gorim said quietly, and the slight rasp in his words drew her attention sharply. There was sweat beading at his hairline, and his flush had darkened— when he noticed her concern, he forced a grim grin. "Ah, just my blasted leg, and a few broken ribs. There has been a bit of trouble brewing, my lady."

She knew better than to offer him a supportive arm, and neither could she call for a slowing of their pace. Instead, she narrowed her eyes and casually brushed a braid behind her ear, then allowed her hand to linger, quickly tapping the side of her jaw with two fingers in a signal she knew her second would recognise. Understanding, agreement, and silence for now. Gorim's nod was minuscule, but she saw.

To carve a new estate was an involved process, but it was also rarely necessary. New Houses were formed very occasionally, usually from feuds or political splintering, but the vast halls of Orzammar had been built in a time when dwarva outnumbered even humans. Despite lacking the surface's seemingly endless horizon, space was something their dwindling numbers had in abundance.

The former estate of House Branka had been refused outright, despite its impressive size and many interesting upgrades. The lack of sulphurous stink permeating the estate's hot water, courtesy of a complex system of pipes, tanks, and Branka's genius, was not enough of an incentive to move her own House into the former home of a madwoman. A female Paragon, viciously insane, who doomed her own House in the Deep Roads— the Commander had seen too much of what lay beyond rational explanations to risk such a curse.

No, in this age the humans called Dragon, as her people continued to diminish, it was far more likely that Houses would combine rather than fracture, and there had been a few smaller estates empty when she'd had to choose her new residence. Proximity to the Commons hadn't been fore in her mind when she'd chosen what had been the home of House Bregun (dissolved long before even her father was born), but it seemed luck was with her regardless. The welcoming entrance to her House, with its angular, expertly carved lintel, drew her like a beacon, and after one final scramble the heavy granite doors were pushed shut behind her company just as the shout of a crier rang out farther up the Quarter.

It would be utterly foolish to think her entrance had gone unnoticed, but it wasn't as though Harrowmont was about to come knocking on her door. The King would hold court, greeting the Paragon in his palace. It was the king's vassals she had to worry about flooding her entrance hall, with invitations spread thinly over demands and expectations.

The recruits were looking rather rumpled after their dash, and Gorim was sucking shallow breaths through his teeth, but they'd made it. With a deep sigh, the Commander waved her hand at the grand, vaulted ceiling of her hall.

"Wardens, make yourselves at home. I will speak with you before I retire about what awaits us all tomorrow. There are rooms prepared, Gorim? And food?" The questions earned her a brief nod, and no one else would have noticed the effort it took for Gorim to stand so very straight and imposing.

"Of course, my lady. The servants will show your company the way."

She busied herself speaking briefly to her cousins while the recruits took their leave, and she had already made certain Alistair and Zevran knew to remain with her. If the members of her House questioned her strange behaviour, they were wise enough to hold their tongues.

"And you look well, Anin." She clapped one of the dwarva on the shoulder— a ruddy lad, no more than twenty. "How my dear aunt?"

"Mother is well, cousin." Anin appeared quite bolstered by the easy familiarity the Commander was carefully propagating, which was the reaction she'd been seeking. She had no intention of becoming some untouchable, detached figurehead within her own House. "She will be pleased you asked."

Catching Gorim's eye for a fleeting moment, she briefly pinched the edge of her bottom lip between her teeth in what appeared a simple habit. _Get them all out_.

"My responsibilities may call me elsewhere," she said, making no effort to keep the regret from her tone. It was not insincere, after all. "But I do think often of my blood. All of you."

"My lady," Gorim interjected perfectly, allowing her final point to stand with a dramatic amount of weight. Let these young dwarva, lacking the brutal political training in which she was weaned, spread word of the newest Paragon's love of her people over too many flagons of ale. Let her sentiments for her family strengthen the ties that bind her House together. "I am sorry, but we have much to discuss, and I don't doubt King Harrowmont's envoys will be arriving shortly."

She sighed, shaking her head with the mildest of exasperation. The Paragon who defied the king wasn't a rumour she wanted circulating. "Ah, of course. Excuse me, friends."

Motioning to Alistair and Zevran, she followed Gorim's measured steps out of the entrance hall and down into the cosy chamber she had chosen for her study. The room was almost exactly how she had left it during their last visit to Orzammar, and no more than a speck of dust had been allowed to accumulate on any of the smooth stone surfaces. As the door slid closed behind them, Gorim braced one arm on her dark granite desk with an audible wheeze.

"Damn—" He was pressing his ribs tenderly with his free hand, and when she sidled up beside him, allowing the depth of her concern to furrow her brow, he forced a small, sincere smile. "Even a year as a merchant made me as slow and stupid as a blind bronto. Some casteless thugs managed to get the drop on me near Tapster's this morning, and the filthy dusters got a few hard kicks in before I took them to task. It… well, it didn't seem like a random bag-snatch to me, my lady."

"I don't doubt it wasn't." She nodded her chin it the direction of her two tall companions lurking near the door. "There were mercenaries at the mouth of Gherlen's Pass, waiting for the human Queen's men. They swore they'd been paid off by some dwarf named Forender."

"What?" Gorim turned, gripping the edge of the desk as he leaned back against it. "Forender? Why would— By all my Ancestors, will these silt-brained fools never stop their ridiculous backbiting? They're tearing our people apart."

Through all the many years he'd stood by her side, she had never seen Gorim so incredibly frustrated with such political machinations. Certainly, he'd had opinions, and had even raged in her defence on more than one occasion, but the feeling of this ineffectual snarling was new.

"If you ever figure out how to stop them," Zevran said archly, even as her mind spun with guilt and apology for shoving such a formidable warrior into a poisonous battlefield. "Do send word to Antiva of your technique. There are certain individuals I would like very much to see out of a job."

It was, of course, a comment designed to ease a bit of the tension. Gorim merely shook his head, scowling. "Blast it all_,_ this is _serious_, elf—"

"Stop it," she snapped, shooting Zevran a warning glance. "We do not have time for bickering. Harrowmont's messenger will be here soon, and I need to know everything of consequence before I play ignorant."

Gorim flinched at her sharp tone, then sagged visibly. "I— of course, my lady."

* * *

She was prepared when the servant announced the arrival of a royal courier, and had the man brought to her in the study rather than the main hall. Bent over a pile of Deep Road maps strewn over the desk, she was every inch the distracted commander and barely glanced up as the courier was waved in.

"Revered Paragon," he began, and though she thought she might recognise him as a dedicated member of Harrowmont's House, she chose to remain _preoccupied_. "His Majesty, King Harrowmont, bade me bring you this."

"Gorim," she said absently, but not especially rudely. "If you please."

She sat back, bringing one of the maps with her, and pointed out some random spot to Alistair. He was a looming presence at her shoulder, and made the appropriate humming noises as he leaned down to peer intently at whatever she had indicated. If this wasn't so deadly serious, she might have whispered something lewd in his ear, but that was a fancy for another time.

Zevran was a terrible influence.

* * *

"Please Soren—" Ambrose tossed his pack in the vague direction of the stone-hewn bed and scrubbing his fingers roughly through his limp curls. "Tell me you dwarves have baths. Some kind of tub— a bucket, even, I don't care. Just, _hot water_."

"Stow it, princess," Amery shot back playfully, stretching his arms high above his head until his shoulders cracked. "You'd smell no riper than the rest of us if you ever remembered to wash your smalls. Filthy animal."

"No brawling before we've unpacked, lads." Eddard's tone was distracted as he stared at his bed with obvious concern, and it prompted both twins to make rude gestures behind his massive back. The Commander's estate was not sprawling, and the members of her House already occupied most of it— that left one rather roomy dormitory for the recruits and mages to share. It wasn't a palace, but it was clear that effort had been made to create a comfortable space for the lot of them. There were rows of surprisingly soft looking (if smallish) beds, rough-woven mats scattered across the floors, and even heavy curtains hanging farther down the long, low-ceilinged room, presumably to create some privacy for the three ladies.

"There should be baths," Soren rumbled quietly, looking pale and uneasy in that way the others had learned not to ask about. Something about this journey had truly unsettled their surly dwarven warrior, and it hadn't improved since they'd descended into Orzammar's cavernous halls. "A couple of large pools, rather like hot springs. They'll stink of sulphur, most likely, but you get used to it."

"Hot springs?" Amery's expression turned wolfish, and he waggled his brows. "Communal? Hey, you hear that dear ladies?" Vaulting up to stand on the thick granite footboard of his bunk, he began to unbuckle his leathers with exaggerated relish. "Wet, nude, and willing— do try not to all jump sweet Leofric at once, hm?"

Further down in the makeshift female quarters, Remya barked out a laugh while Marion glared daggers at the foolish display. Keliani looked nearly as displeased as the vinegary mage, which was surprising.

"You're a horse's arse, Amery," she said sharply, with wisps of dark hair falling free from her tie and framing the bright spots of indignant colour high on her cheeks.

The former knight himself was much more startled about this unexpected defence than about his comrade's crude humour. Rubbing the back of his neck, Leofric ducked his head without even shooting Amery a hard look. Mercifully, Carran took the opportunity to dart out of nowhere and catch Amery around the middle, tossing him back onto the waiting mattress with a great thump.

"Right," he said rather cheerfully, sitting down beside the breathless, squirming man. "That's enough, you daft bugger. Leave it, or I'll tickle you 'til you piss yourself."

* * *

Getting rid of the courier had been a quicker task than she'd feared, and the Commander waved off the offer of food until she'd met with her recruits. If the hidden message within Harrowmont's letter was to be trusted, a request tucked away behind one of her father's own ciphers, the rest of her evening would be…eventful. Zevran was already off at his own insistence, scouting for both rumour and risk, keeping his ear to the stone and his presence as elusive as smoke.

"I will eat," she insisted again, glancing at Alistair as they strode down towards the guest lodgings. "But later. Ancestors' spare me, you're so _fussy_."

"You're so bloody stubborn," was the muttered reply. "And I'm _starving_. Maker's breath, woman."

Of course, her foray into good luck was brief. An empty dormitory awaited her, rather than a company of Wardens, and she pinched the bridge of her nose in mild frustration as she leaned against the doorframe. There wasn't even a mage to be found.

"Well, they _were_ here." Alistair gestured at the packs strewn haphazardly about the room. "What was that, not quite an hour and we've lost them already? I say, well done us."

"Mercy," she sighed, then reached out and grabbed her dearest love by his belt. "Come on, then. There must be someone in this place who knows where they've gotten off to."

* * *

The two large, steaming pools within the bathing chamber did stink faintly of something like boiled egg, but it wasn't more than a small nuisance. Certainly, after weeks on the road with nothing but snow melted in a saucepan, none of them seemed to reconsider for more than a moment or two.

"We're all worldly folk here, is all I'm saying," Amery called through one of the cloth privacy screens, pausing long enough to yank his tunic over his head. "There's only three of you, and eight of us, and the baths aren't that bloody big."

There was quiet murmuring from behind the women's screen, followed by tense silence, until finally Keliani stepped out with her chin tilted up and eyes flashing in warning against any catcalling. The linen sheet tucked up under her arms was enough to make Leofric's mouth go a bit dry, and he quickly turned his attention to the fascinating veins of shiny black rock snaking up through the walls. He refused to entertain indelicate thoughts about one of his compatriots, no matter how lovely she might be.

"We'll take Ed and Carran," she said, and there was the barest thread of mischief winding its way into her tone and all down Leofric's spine. "The two biggest, to even things out."

Amery's answering protest was so shrill that Leofric couldn't help but flinch, even as he carefully folded his breeches, hitching up the sheet wrapped around his hips to preserve his own modesty. The move looked a bit self-conscious given Keliani's comment, he realised, but it was better than letting his backside hang out for the pleasure of all and sundry.

"Works for me." Eddard chuckled, clapping Rimon firmly on the shoulder as he sauntered past. "Enjoy the sausage boil, lads."

"Oh, you poxy son of a _whore_," Ambrose hissed quietly, and Leofric managed to keep his smirk carefully subdued. He might be integrating well into this often strange company, but this entire situation was rife with impropriety.

Both twins were grumbling now, but it was the gentle splashing of bodies entering water that kept Leofric's back turned away from the spacious room. Everything seemed to be going fine, and no one had commented teasingly about his hesitance, which in retrospect should have been a rather large clue to be wary.

Then the sheet was gone, his fingers able to do no more than vainly pinch the edge, and Leofric bit back a startled yelp at his sudden, unexpected nakedness. It was only by clinging to the last desperate dregs of his discipline that he managed to maintain an unaffected posture rather than ducking to hide his exposed manhood; instead, he took a deep, steadying breath through his nose.

There was laughter, of course, and some well-meaning objections on his behalf, but Leofric refused to feel embarrassed. The Maker had given him a body without any terrible deformities, and he had planned on stripping down in the immediate future regardless. Having lived with these men and women for nearly a year, Leofric was calmly confident (though not prideful) in his own appearance. Modesty was a virtue, certainly, but he was not so easily cowed.

He brushed his palms against the side of his thighs and pivoted on one heel; abruptly faced with his companions' attention, he may have flexed the muscles of chest and arms just slightly and allowed himself a small, rather lazy smile. There was a heartbeat of silence, until a bawdy whistle from the ladies' pool shattered it.

Remya was pressed up against the side of the bath, with slick stone hiding all below her bare arms, and had Leofric been a different sort of man, he might have winked at her. "My, oh my," she drawled, eyes lingering playfully. "Bit of a backfire, eh _salroka_?"

Things seemed to settle down thereafter, with all the fuss petering out to a calm banter and the lot of them slipping into the pools. The first few minutes were quite routine— a quick, thorough scrubbing with his soap cake and a dunk to rinse— though the occasional feeling of a foot brushing against him was slightly strange. In his experience, both as a knight and a Warden, shared ablutions were rarely leisurely soaks.

The water was incredibly soothing as it sapped the ache from his tired muscles, however, and once he was properly clean, Leofric allowed his eyes to close as he sunk nearly up to his neck, pillowing his head back on his folded arms. He'd remembered to dig his shaving kit out of his pack before they'd all gone in search of the baths, but he'd wait until he was well away from any random kicking or wriggling before he attempted to tame his beard.

Something poked his calf— a toe, it felt like— and Leofric grunted softly as he shifted away. Then he was poked again, harder this time, and he slit one eye open in mild annoyance just as the bothersome mage began speaking.

"That's quite a scratch." Llyr motioned at the deep, uneven scar that puckered over Leofric's shoulder and towards his neck. It was too large to span with both hands, but despite its gruesome appearance, the muscle beneath had healed well enough. Most days, he could all but forget its presence.

Bracing himself for the inevitable question, but long ago resigned to the fresh sting of pain that would lance through him at the memories, Leofric stared silently. He did not have to wait long.

Dipping his chin down towards the inarguably vicious looking mark that tore across his own freckled abdomen, Llyr smirked amiably, clearly concerned with kinship rather than one-upmanship. "Does the story have a dragon in it?"

"No," he replied evenly, very aware of the tension rippling out among his fellow Wardens as they began to realise what conversation had begun. The tale was hardly news to them, of course. "Walking corpses."

_Muriel_, his mind supplied. As though he could forget.

* * *

"The baths?" Shaking her head, the Warden Commander dismissed the slightly nervous servant with a kind smile and turned her attention to Alistair. "We've got a brood of spoiled children— a few weeks of road grime, and they're beside themselves."

Scratching his head, Alistair shrugged with amusement. "They should try clamouring down a mountain, in a blizzard, covered in dragon entrails. Remember? I had bits of guts half-frozen in my skivvies, and we couldn't get rid of the stink 'til we were back in Redcliffe."

She started off down the corridor, shuddering in what was not quite mock horror. "Oh, don't sodding remind me. I had to share a tent with you."

* * *

Llyr looked about ready to ask for more detail, and Leofric was quickly working out the most polite way of refusing to elaborate, when an unexpected call from the doorway stopped all conversation dead.

"Wardens." The Commander's voice echoed rather ominously through the bathing chamber. More than one of them jumped in surprise, if the subsequent splashing was any indication. "Getting squeaky clean, are we?"

In any other situation, Leofric would have snapped to attention. Naked and wet, however, he hesitated.

"Don't get up," she continued, answering his silent question. "Not just now, at least. Finish up, get dressed, and meet me in the dining hall shortly. I've much to discuss with you all, including our mage companions."

Then, as quickly as she'd made her presence known, the Commander was gone.

* * *

Pleasingly, the recruits appeared not long after she and Alistair began working their way through the delicious spread of food laid out along the prepared dining table. They shuffled in as one slightly soggy group, but the Commander was somewhat concerned at the general lack of armour amongst them, even on the part of Remya and Soren. Perhaps the need for haste she'd implied had made plain clothes seem the smarter option, or perhaps they did not grasp the constant dangers inherent within this trip to Orzammar, but at the very least they all appeared to be armed in some fashion. That was something.

"Sit," she said, motioning to the chairs set up around the table. "And do eat. It's all too delicious to go cold while I speak." It truly was— she was very aware that Grey Warden appetite was a poor excuse for the sheer amount of roast nug and mushroom flatbread she was craving, and Alistair had already teased her for it.

Her brood quickly took seats, fidgeting a bit, but that was hardly surprising. The thick blanket of secrecy she'd forced upon them was becoming stifling, no doubt. Remya and Soren wasted no time in filling their own plates, however, and the others paused only briefly before following suit.

There was little need for preamble, and even less time to waste on it. "We'll be headed into the Deep Roads tomorrow," she announced plainly, tapping her fingers along the side of her goblet. "That means darkspawn, as I'm sure you've figured. The mages will stay here, along with Zevran, but I want the rest of you fully kitted and ready to go just after breakfast. Be prepared for battle, and a night or two of camping. Marion—" Turning her attention to the mage, the Commander caught the woman's fierce look before it was swiftly hidden. Such sourness was irrelevant if the job was completed properly, and if nothing else, the Commander trusted Irving. "How long will you need?"

"The better part of a day," was the quiet answer. "Then perhaps an additional hour after you return."

According to what Gorim had told her, there were a few pockets of darkspawn activity lingering in nearby thaigs. It shouldn't take more than a day to slaughter a band and return. Nodding, the Commander took a long drink, masking her thoughtful silence at least a little.

"Tomorrow then, Wardens," she said finally, forcing a small grin. "We will test your mettle."

* * *

They had been forbidden from venturing out into Orzammar in groups smaller than four, and the Commander's warnings on the inherent dangers of the dwarven city had set Leofric's teeth on edge. Despite being considered respected Grey Wardens, they'd been told firmly that their guard should never waiver— the Commander was not known for her exaggeration, and the hard gleam in her eyes had spoken volumes as well.

With a proper, relatively secure base established, it would hradly be right to leave the horses outside with what little shelter the mountain provided. It wasn't as though Orzammar lacked the space to accommodate surfacer mounts either. These were the reasons Leofric found himself striding through the surprisingly vaulted halls of the dwarven city, drawing on every bit of propriety he possessed to keep from gaping slack-jawed at the sheer wonder of the place.

The bright, liquid rock— Maker's breath, it was _liquid rock_— churning so far below them must have been immensely, unimaginably hot. Stepping very carefully towards the edge of the wide, dusty street was like moving near a smouldering bed of coals.

"Quit your gawking, would you?" When a small, rough fist jabbed him sharply in his lower back, hard enough to knock him even through his mail, Leofric was forced to bite back a curse. It would be quite a lengthy fall before the horrible, fiery death, after all.

He turned his attention back to their journey, and specifically to the darkly amused dwarven woman smirking up at him. Remya laced her fingers together, stretching out her arms in a manner that was not even slightly above suspicion, then motioned him away from the precipice. "It's only a breathtaking vista 'til the first time you see some poor sod tossed in for owing the wrong people. Toddle yourself back this way, _salroka_."

"No doubt you're correct," he murmured, noting the stares their company was garnering. Three good-sized human men stood out rather obviously, where even Rimon would have towered over the general populace. "It's simply… more than I expected."

Leofric did not miss the way her eyes shuttered, just before she looked away. He wasn't entirely certain what he'd said wrong, but he did not have a chance to apologise before she scampered off towards Carran and Amery. Frowning, he followed.

"—not sitting right," Amery was saying, holding the back of one hand against his lips as they continued their rather unhurried trek. "And it's not even real bread if there's no grain in it. Ugh, my gut's fit to burst."

Carran rolled his eyes, but Leofric was pleased to note that his fellow Redcliffe veteran was keeping watch on the sparse crowds of dwarves milling about the merchant stalls. "No one forced you to have a third helping, you loon. I still've no idea where you keep it all."

Smiling a bit weakly, Amery shrugged. "Hollow leg. Hey, you all right there, half-pint?"

Remya had been staring— _gawking_, his mind supplied a bit unkindly— at a particular vendor's stall. Trinkets and small statues of finely buffed metal and glittering gems winked up from the stout little man's tables, but there was no hint of avarice in her expression when she glanced up at the teasing moniker. She looked… frightened, perhaps. A little angry as well, but that was to be expected.

"What did you— " Colour bloomed on her cheeks, banishing the strange pallor that had been overtaking her, and Amery wisely chose to duck behind Carran's shoulder. "Grown some mighty big boulders, running your gob like that in this city. Are they between your legs, or between your ears?"

"Right. That'll do, Wardens," Carran interjected firmly, and Leofric was no longer surprised at the subtle, natural tenor of command this farmer's son sometimes conveyed. Leofric himself was a fine soldier, and he was quite content to serve as one, but he knew he had no flair for leadership. He had known a few truly skilled leaders, however, and recognised the aura of it.

Remya growled, but the ease with which her ire was cooled meant the slight had not been taken too seriously. Instead of starting a brawl, the woman jammed her thumbs behind her belt and quickened her pace, though not enough to take her any real distance from her human companions.

* * *

She'd been unsure of the best way to approach her audience with Harrowmont, and Zevran's report upon returning from his preliminary scouting did nothing to ease her decision.

"There were many guards about the palace." Shrugging, he leaned back against the edge of her desk, close enough that his hip brushed her elbow. Gorim's frown at the familiar pose was laden with meaning, but it was not something she could afford to address at the moment; she filed it away regardless. "No more than I would have expected, though, given your dwarven politics. If there is some lurking danger we've not expected, incredible care has been taken to make it seem not so."

"That is not beyond the realm of possibilities." Mind whirling, she reminded herself fiercely that she had much greater concerns than the machinations of Orzammar. "Forender might have been working independently when he hired the mercenaries, or it might have been on the King's order. It might have been someone else, using his name. I'll know for certain after my meeting, I'd imagine."

What any of those prospects would mean… well, that was something else. If Harrowmont truly wished to make an enemy of Ferelden, after all she had done to secure both thrones, that was his mistake to make. She was neither a politician, nor a vassal of either monarch— let them squabble until the Stone crumbled to dust.

The thought tasted bitter, but it was necessary.

"I want to appear as a Warden, not a Paragon." Rising from her chair, she slipped easily into the mantle of Commander of the Grey. "Alistair?"

"Ready when you are, my love." She hadn't expected the endearment, not when the tone was so very sombre, and there was a mild air of challenge in his posture. She had not been the only one to notice Gorim's disapproval, it seemed. It was rather sweet, to be honest, that Alistair would puff up in such loyalty towards Zevran.

It was hardly surprising that Zevran caught the unspoken defence as well, and the soft chuckle that accompanied his smile was warm with affection. "Shall I be keeping watch on the brood, my Wardens, or your backs?"

"Our backs, if you please. We'll leave presently." She had been known as a clever, subtle princess in her youth. More often than not, the Warden Commander was much more direct.

* * *

_AN: Well, that was a helluva long trip to Orzammar. _

_Yes, I'm being glib because I'm embarrassed I left this hanging for so long. Ugh, I'm sorry. But hey, Orzammar! Politics! Recruits! Deep Roads! Huzzah!_


	16. Chapter 16

_AN: Brace yourselves, my friends; we're going back in time. Ooooooh._

* * *

_Analepsis 2 – Origins_

**Amery**

They weren't the most skilled fighters in this tourney— that was _painfully_ apparent— but Amery wasn't about to let a little thing like being outmatched stop him. Ducking and grabbing up a handful of dirt, he sent it flying up into the eyes of the powerfully ugly swordsman (probably a mercenary judging by his weaponry, not to mention his sour demeanour and pungent odour) who'd thought Amery was just about finished. The man cursed, sweeping his blade out blindly, and Amery took the opportunity to sidestep and kick the blighter square in the knee. Another hard kick when the man went down, this one to an armoured shoulder, and Amery pounced on his back and pressed his dagger against a vulnerable spot on his neck.

Not quite trusting Ugly not to try and beat him bloody despite his win, Amery made certain the Wardens had taken note before scrambling off the enraged man. Ambrose was on the edge of the training yard, feet balanced on the lowest rung of the thick wooden fence, and Amery darted over to join his brother like an archdemon was hot on his heels. There was bravery, sure, and then there was being damned _stupid_.

Ambrose was laughing, and Amery joined in a bit breathlessly as he hopped up to sit next to him. Ugly was getting to his feet, wiping at his face, and the Wardens were already calling for another bout to get started. The dark, dangerous glare Amery found himself on the receiving end of was a bit unnerving, but not unexpected. Drawing on the familiar presence of his brother, Amery blew the mercenary a kiss.

"Oh you _arse_," Ambrose muttered between weakening giggles, jabbing him sharply with one elbow. "You're going to get us both killed."

"Ah, you always say that, you ninny." Reaching up, he wrapped one arm around Ambrose's neck and dragged him down until their cheeks pressed together. "Smile for the angry gentleman."

No, it didn't matter that they were outmatched— they were going to be Grey Wardens. That was the end of it, full stop. Amery would rather dive head first into the Waking Sea and swim all the way to Antiva than slink back to an empty, desolate home and ultimately drink himself to an early grave. That would simply give their Da too much satisfaction, Maker bless and keep the filthy old codger…

It was ridiculous, having been free of the bastard's foul mouth and the sting of his belt for nearly five years, that Amery could still hear his voice plain as day. Nothing but rage, scorn, and the ignorant fear of a man too steeped in superstition to see anything but the mark of evil in his twin boys. Twins, nearly perfect mirrors of each other… changelings, he'd called them. Spirits sent to torment him for some sin or other, ignoring the fact that the only spirits that truly tormented him came in flasks and tankards.

It didn't matter how many times the Chantry priests assured him that such a birth was not a punishment, but a blessing. These changelings had stolen his wife, a blood sacrifice to fuel their unnatural existence, and he'd never forgive them for it. That paranoia drove him further into the bottle, further into bitter resentment and violence. Amery and Ambrose, named by the midwife rather than by their own Da, had learned early to cling to each other.

It didn't matter. They'd always spent more time sneaking into taverns and sleeping in neighbours' barns than at home, and eventually their father had simply drunk himself into the ground. It was a relief for everyone when it finally ended— maybe even for the vicious, twisted old man still consumed by grief.

Shaking off the haze of memory when Ambrose elbowed him again, Amery spared a glance up at where the Wardens stood, watching two new blokes clanging about the yard. The blond elf was smirking, saying something to the human that made the man roll his eyes, but it was the dwarf who'd caught Amery's interest. Anybody called _Commander_ was usually worth a little extra notice, and in this specific instance, it was this Commander whom Amery had been working to impress.

So he'd waited as a few other hopefuls squared off, keeping a close eye on what made the dwarf frown and what made her nod approvingly. He'd noted the two blades on her back and the fluid grace of her movements, and when it was his turn for a bout, he had a pretty good idea how to show off. Quick, precise attacks, nothing flashy and no movement wasted, drawing on every ounce of skill he possessed. There would be no second chances in this tourney, he was certain. Every moment had to count.

He did his best, just as he knew Ambrose would do shortly when his turn came. They'd make it, together, as always. Regardless of anything else, Amery had faith in _them_.

**Ambrose**

It would have been much easier to just join some mercenary band, but Amery had never done anything in half-measures and so Ambrose hadn't either. The whole of the bannorn was still smarting from the darkspawn, and the Wardens were being touted as the greatest bloody heroes Ferelden had seen since River Dane… now seemed like a fine time to pack up and try for something great. Minor thieving and general skulduggery wasn't the finest way to make a living, truth be told, and Ambrose had actually been a bit relieved when Amery started yakking about the Grey Wardens' call for recruits.

Mercenary work was a tad too nasty, anyway, with pay more important than morals. That was fine when filching a pie, but not so easy to accept when it meant sliding a sword into someone's belly. It was the same with piracy, and even with joining the army, depending on who was leading the charge.

The Grey Wardens, on the other hand, seemed just the right mix of heroics, broad-minded morals, and adventure. Unlike his brother, Ambrose wasn't entirely swept up in tall tales and the thought of spiting their father, but he was warm to the idea of making something special out of a life that had so far been rather unsatisfactory. Slaying darkspawn and other terrible beasties seemed a worthy enough goal, and Maker knew he'd never shut Amery up about it unless they gave it a try.

It wasn't until he stepped into the yard of Vigil's Keep that he realised the truth of what Amery had been saying for over a fortnight. This was the moment to prove they were more than what they'd been, to become _better_… and that would certainly be something.

It wasn't until the Commander of the Grey had peered into him, making something small and frightened squirm under her scrutiny, that he realised he _ached_ to be better. Amery, that smug bastard, had known it all along.

And somehow, by the grace of the holy Andraste, _somehow_ they'd done it. After the dust had cleared and the day was finished, he and his brother were the only two left standing in that damned training yard. They hadn't skilfully defeated all comers or anything so grand and unexpected, and Ambrose was nursing a broken nose by the feel of it, but incredibly they'd managed to do something right. The rest were sent packing, while _they_ were asked to stay.

Offered a place in the Grey Wardens. Wouldn't their Da have choked on that one.

**Eddard**

Leaning his head back against the cold, unforgiving stone of Vigil's Keep, Eddard prayed silently that the wind might shift at least a little. As it was, the fierce spring storm was blowing in from the Bannorn rather than from the sea, and the great walls stretching up behind him offered no protection. His cheeks felt raw from the stinging rain, his nose and fingers had gone numb, and he truly did not wish to contemplate the mire that was congealing under his armour.

When he'd first been turned away, he'd been determined to stand at the gates until either the Warden Commander's resolve or the fortress itself cracked. After suffering under that frosty dwarven woman's stare, he'd not been entirely convinced which was more likely.

There had been others, all come to enlist with the Grey, but they'd been refused as well— over forty, farmers and a few young freeholders, and some of them quite competent. Eddard had been the only one of noble stock, though he'd hardly advertised it, so perhaps there had been others he simply hadn't recognised. They'd come, as the call for recruits had asked, and they'd fought each other in a simple tourney, but the dwarf had not been impressed.

Nearly four-dozen, and all but _two lucky sods_ had skittered off with their tails between their legs, told they were not meant to be Wardens.

Yes, he'd been determined to stand and wait, to stay steadfast until allowed another chance to prove himself, but now that he'd passed one very wet night and a long, miserable day, he'd given in and sat in the foul mud. It was seeping up between the rings of his mail, through leather and wool, but he'd already been soaked to the skin regardless. His greatsword, a fine veridium blade given to him by his father when he'd come of age, was resting carefully on his bent knees, spared the worst of the sludge.

His father, who was likely sitting patiently and comfortably within the estate, much more concerned with the demands of his bannorn and his wife than his second son's most recent fantasy. An old man with more than enough children to secure his legacy, and little patience for heroes…

When the darkspawn had torn across the south like a plague, they had been lucky. The Blight was ended before the bulk of the horde could reach their lands, but not before roving bands devastated some of the outlying farmholds. Eddard's sisters and stepmother were sent to stay with relatives in the Free Marches, while his father travelled to Denerim in preparation for the Landsmeet, leaving sons and soldiers behind to defend the farmers. Between the darkspawn and the civil war, there had been so much needless death.

It was a foul, bloody business— weeks of darkspawn raids, bandits, and other marauding horrors. It was also enough to shake Eddard free of the wastrel he'd been in danger of becoming, and show him another path. He could be a protector, a Grey Warden, sworn to safeguard innocent people without politics getting in the way. While knights and nobility had squabbled and spilled each other's blood, the Grey Wardens had recognised the true threat and ended it. They had not sat idle while the land burned around them.

Let Conall inherit Father's title, and Angus and Malcolm fight over their own shares. The girls would marry well, Maker willing, and the family's future would be assured. Eddard wasn't shirking any great responsibilities, no matter what his father's silent, heavy scowl might have implied.

The wind was howling madly through the trees, and Eddard very pointed ignored the gurgling of his stomach. He'd finished off the last bit of his bread that morning, and now night was falling once again, but he wasn't going anywhere. He'd starve outside these bloody gates before he gave up.

"Well now, funny meeting you here." At a sound of a man's voice quite nearby, Eddard jerked awake. Just when had he nodded off, blast it? His hand was tight around his sword's hilt in an instant, but he relaxed somewhat when he recognised the cloaked man smiling down at him. One of the Wardens— and King Maric's bastard son, or so the rumours went.

"Whoa, easy—" The man held up empty, gauntleted hands. "I've just come to check on how the siege was coming along. Lovely weather for it."

Blinking away the rain that had beaded in his eyelashes, Eddard shifted his stiff muscles and dragged himself to his feet. He might look like a drowned rat, but he wasn't about to speak to this Warden huddled down in the mud.

"Good evening, ser," he said politely, trying not to sniff like a child with a cold.

"Just Alistair, please." The Warden's friendly expression dimmed under his hood. "Listen friend, you should know that the Commander's not one to change her mind. I am sorry, but you're wasting your time here."

Swallowing back another rush of disappointment, Eddard managed to dredge up what he hoped was a charming, confident smile of his own. "Beg pardon, but it is my time to waste. I've no intention of leaving."

"I see." The Warden shifted, muck squelching under his boots, then reached into the large pouch that hung heavy from his belt. A moment later, Eddard found himself scrabbling to catch a bright red apple tossed in his direction. "I would give you my cloak, but I'd probably end up joining you out here if I did."

Glancing between the Warden and the unexpected gift of fruit, Eddard was at a bit of a loss. There was something in the man's manner that gave him hope, for some reason he couldn't quite place. "I— thank you, ser— Alistair."

"Don't mention it." Pausing, the Warden glanced up at the Keep a bit warily. "Ah, yeah, but in all seriousness. If you happen to find yourself speaking with the Commander, please don't mention it."

"Of course," Eddard agreed, unwilling to pry when this man seemed willing to talk to him. It was a start, at least. "Not a word."

"Good man." Apparently finished with his visit, the Warden reached up to clap him on the shoulder, then turned back and trudged into the Keep.

Eddard watched him go, feeling whatever determination the rain had managed to wash away flood back into his body. He would wait, no matter how long it took.

Lowering himself back down into the mud, Eddard grinned and bit into his apple.

**Rimon**

He scrubbed at his eyes, ready to blame the redness on the campfire smoke if Keliani happened to ask. They were another half-day's travel away from Amaranthine, and even though this had been his idea to begin with, Rimon could still feel the embarrassing sting of tears beginning to prickle.

He'd never been out of Denerim before, except when they'd fled the darkspawn. It was… too quiet out here in the country, especially at night. The air was clear and fresh, though, and he wasn't about to be cut down by a patrol of guards just for wearing his sword.

He couldn't get his mother's tears out of his mind, the way she'd cried and hugged him close, but had never asked him to stay. Would it have been harder to leave if she had, or easier? He wasn't sure.

"You're burning the rabbit." Startled, he couldn't stop a confused, ridiculous sound from escaping his lips. Maker, he was such a child sometimes.

Keliani simply shook her head, reaching over to turn the spit they'd rigged up over their small fire. Neither of them knew much about hunting, but somehow they'd managed. "We could go back, you know."

Frustration flaring, he found his voice. "What? No chance. You go back, if that's what you want."

She didn't answer him, staring into the fire, and Rimon was struck again by how much she'd changed since the battle. He wasn't entirely certain, but he couldn't remember seeing her smile since before they'd engaged the first wave of darkspawn that poured into the Alienage. It had been— oh Andraste's blood, it had been an utter _nightmare_, but they'd made it through together. They'd gotten the children out into the relative safety of the hills, just as Valendrian had told them, and had even managed to take out a few of the 'spawn on their way.

He'd never get the smell of those foul beasts out of his nose, or be content to walk about unarmed. It was that second bit where the Denerim guards would take issue. Given the options before him, becoming a Grey Warden didn't sound awful. So, when the rumours had begun to trickle in that the Wardens were looking to recruit, and that scores of hopefuls had already been tested and turned away, Rimon made up his mind.

He refused to grow old and complacent in the Alienage, even surrounded by the family he already sorely missed… if he managed to see old age. He wouldn't— _couldn't_ go back to the way things were, not when he had seen the end of the world looming so close and terrible. Not when he could do something worthwhile.

Keliani might not smile anymore, but she was still his oldest friend. She wanted this too; she felt the same strength and drive to be _better_ that he did, even if she was too damned stubborn to admit it.

"I'll die with my sword in my hand," he murmured, mostly to himself, but he didn't miss the way Keliani's jaw tightened. "As a Grey Warden, or an uppity knife ear. I know which I'd prefer, at any rate. Now, pass that rabbit, if you please?"

**Keliani**

It hadn't been a hard decision, really, to follow Rimon into this insanity. She had no blood family to leave behind, except an aunt with too many of her own children to care for, and the familiar streets had begun feeling terribly crowded with ghosts and memories. Too many of them gone, dead of plague, stolen away to Tevinter, or slaughtered, either in the purge or after by the darkspawn. Too much death and loss— what was one more orphan, old enough to be married but still a child? One more mouth, but this one too loose when it came to telling off human guardsmen. Trouble, and more than the Alienage needed.

Not that they'd ever said that to her, especially not Valendrian. She had no doubt the hahren would have taken her into his own home, if the need arose, and that was more than she could have borne. They might not say it, but _she_ knew she brought trouble where none was due— too proud by half, with a sharp tongue and a strong sword arm. She'd never be a good match to marry off, always courting trouble instead of young men, always letting her temper get ahead of her good sense…

So that was how she'd found herself trudging north to Amaranthine, to the fortress called Vigil's Keep, in search of the Hero of Ferelden. More specifically, Rimon's mad plan to scamper off and join the Grey Wardens was how she found herself thrashing some thickheaded giant of a shem around a practice ring, blocking surprisingly dexterous swings of a massive greatsword. Her opponent was sweating, great sopping beads of it, but otherwise showed no signs of slowing down. The human had bulk on her, reach and strength too, but she was holding her own while Rimon watched and waited, already having finished his own bout.

He'd done well, paired off against another shem who was slighter and darker than her opponent, but also incredibly quick with a pair of daggers. It hadn't been an easy fight, but after a slow start and a few missteps, Rimon had fought like a bloody terror, and the shem had finally fallen with a shield slammed into his gut. Keliani hadn't been able to stop her shout of encouragement when Rimon had made that final move, and the exclamation had earned her a beaming smile in return.

Eventually, just when she started to truly feel the shaking in arms and the burning in her lungs, the Wardens called a halt to the fight. Her opponent lowered his sword without hesitation, sucking in breaths like a bellows, and actually _grinned_ at her. _Arrogant shem_.

"A draw, and a fine match," the Warden Commander announced, then motioned to a bucket and trough waiting just at the edge of the training yard. "There's water if you'd like. Ed, you look about ready to keel."

"Just getting my second wind, Commander," the giant shem replied, catching the sheath and baldric one of the other Wardens tossed in his direction, and sliding his sword into it. Keliani fought back the rush still singing through her veins, forcing herself to sheath her own blade. It had never been this difficult to keep control of herself after a battle; not before the darkspawn.

Rimon was beside her, a familiar hand on her shoulder and joyous words yammering in her ear, but the feeling of a gaze settling heavy on her drew her attention. The Warden Commander, who had seen the horrors of Denerim even after Keliani had made it outside the walls with the children, who had saved them from the regent's treachery and the cruelty of Tevinter slavers…

The weight of _that_ gaze made Keliani shiver, but she met it unblinking, regardless.

**Soren**

He'd understood, even kneeling before the Paragon, that this would be a punishment for his weakness. Winning a few rounds in the Provings with his strength and his skill was not a mark of the Ancestors' favour, but of their scorn— he would earn a place among these Grey Wardens, and in doing so he would leave Orzammar behind. Even if he managed to survive long enough to hear his Calling, to die in the Deep Roads rather than beneath the terrible, gaping maw of sky that waited above, he would be lost to the Stone.

It was worth it. His daughter lived, and that was enough. Perhaps he'd never been a true son of Orzammar after all.

"Soren—" His name from the lips of a Paragon… even from a sky-touched, branded kinslayer, _that_ was something. It should have been, at least, had he not felt so very numb. "You've shown great promise today. I would welcome you into the Grey Wardens, but only if that is what you truly want."

Had he given her reason to doubt his sincerity? He had tried so hard to stifle his reluctance, with thoughts of a life surrounded by reminders of his shame, but this Paragon had been an Aeducan princess. His fumbling omissions and false reassurances would not convince her.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Soren dredged up as much truth as he dared.

"Leaving Orzammar will be difficult, Paragon," he said quietly, his throat tight. "But I believe I can better serve my family and my people as a Grey Warden. It is my greatest wish to join your ranks."

Suddenly there was a hand on his shoulder, and it startled him enough to look up. The Paragon, a living Ancestor, stared down at him questioningly.

"I see." He forced himself to breathe— if he was refused, he would simply find some excuse to join the Legion. This was merely the cleanest, easiest option.

Eventually, she nodded, and Soren felt his stomach clench. Whether in anticipation or dread, it didn't matter. "Then the Wardens are glad to have you."

**Remya**

The rest of those sodding, good-for-nothing cave ticks had scuttled back to the slums at the first sign of a guard, but Remya couldn't afford another mistake. The carta might be broken, but just like the darkspawn, there would never be an end to it. She needed this job to go right, to go _perfect_, if she was ever going to make a name for herself, ever going to be anything but some toothless beggar or cut-up whore—

"Stop right there, brand!" That had been how it started to go sour, but it wasn't the first time Remya had been called out by some copper-plated guardsman. She was quicker, always.

Pockets stuffed near bursting with coin, having already disposed of all the purses with their cleanly sliced ties, Remya cursed the damning jangle that marked her as she darted off into the crowds. She'd always stuck to the Commons before, never much farther than the stupid sots stumbling out of Tapster's, but this had been _important_ and _risky_, and she was going to be the one who got it right.

All it took was some mud dried across her brand and her hair loose like she never wore it, along with some decent rags filched from a servant caste clothesline. On close inspection, she was still just a filthy duster putting on airs with a clean tunic, but it was good enough (along with a bit of stealth) to get her into the Diamond Quarter and her very first touch of real gold.

After she'd been made, however, it became dangerously apparent that she didn't know these streets, and these guards weren't quite so dim or so few as the one's further down— it was an utter cock up, or soon to be.

All turned about, Remya ducked into one of the pristine side streets that passed for alleys amongst the nobles and crouched behind a pile of crates. Her luck was quickly running low, her heart pounding hard in her ears, but she could still hear the tramping of heavily armoured feet close behind. Swallowing back the bitter, metallic taste that was crawling up the back of her throat, she pulled her daggers out of their sheaths, formerly hidden in the folds of her borrowed clothes.

The hilts were pitted with rust, but she'd wrapped them in scraps of leather she'd found here and there, giving her a solid grip. The blades, well, she'd taken better care of those swathes of cheap iron than she'd ever taken care of anything, ever. They weren't pretty, but they hardly had to be when they cut just as well as any glittery silverite toothpick the nobles toted about. Sharp blades, sharper wits, and nothing to lose except a life only she'd miss… and not miss it for long, if things went too poorly.

Her scar was tugging her eye, and she rubbed her face roughly with the back of one wrist. Frowning meant the thickened skin would pull, her lid would droop, and that might mean the difference between taking an axe to the neck and dodging a killing blow. Schooling her expression into a feral kind of grin, the one that kept both eyes open, she waited until the shouts of guards had moved farther down the Quarter, then took a deep breath and slunk back out towards the main street.

She managed to avoid notice for a while, until finally she could see the stairs down, back to the Commons, but there were a half dozen guards standing watch. Six bruisers, plated in thick, well-made armour, with axes and greatswords nearly bigger than her…

"Oh you stupid sodding bitch," she snarled softly, and flicked the daggers around from where they'd been pressed against her forearms. There was still a chance, a small one, that she'd manage to get past before they spilled her guts all over these nice, clean streets.

It didn't quite work out as well she'd hoped, but if she was going to be slaughtered like a squealing nug, she wasn't going down easy. The guards surrounded her, but she'd already managed to knock one blighter free of a couple of teeth, and unman another with a mean kick to the stones. There was shouting farther up, more guards no doubt, but Remya could already feel her muscles burning, weakening, and the edges of her vision were going dark. She wasn't going to last, not against so many men with years of training and full bellies.

She feinted away from the flat of a blade aimed at her head— they might very well be trying to take her alive for an execution, rather than muddy up the Quarter with casteless blood— and one of them grabbed her from behind. Snapping her head back, she hoped to feel the wet crunch of a nose breaking, but instead the world exploded into flashing lights and agony. A helm, fucking _arsefaces_, and the crack of her skull against the unyielding metal made her slump pitifully.

Still conscious, but just barely, Remya grasped for blades that had already fallen from her limp fingers, and her tongue felt too thick to curse. The world was wavering around her, spinning like she'd downed a barrel of moss wine, and if there'd been anything in her stomach but ache and emptiness, she'd have already lost it all over her boots.

"Guards, stand down!" Oh, holy bleeding Stone, that voice split through her head like a smith's hammer. "Release her, damn it."

The arms binding her were suddenly gone, and Remya blinked stupidly as everything fell away with them. Her knees, smashing into the street as she dropped like a boulder, screamed bloody murder all up her spine. She gasped, struggling to hold herself up with hands braced and back bowed, but instincts still warned her of the shadow suddenly looming over her.

"Take a moment, girl," the voice was saying, a woman's, and Remya gritted her teeth. Some deshyr's daughter, maybe, highborn and still soft-hearted—

There was a rattle of armour, thudding steps, and another gruffer voice joined the fray. Slowly coming back to herself, Remya didn't dare move. "Paragon, this brand is a common thief—"

Paragon? Oh sweet sodding Ancestors—

"Not so common," the woman interrupted, words firm and a bit sharp. Very slowly, Remya pushed herself up enough that she was kneeling, gaze darting between the furious guard and the unflinching, stony-eyed woman with a dark blue brand as big as Remya had ever seen. It marked her cheek, her forehead, even down her nose, and yet she was clean and proud, dressed in fine leathers, and had the guard called her _Paragon_? "She did manage to keep you all quite busy, Captain. The Wardens may have need of such a recruit."

Some tall creature, maybe even an elf if his ears were any clue, appeared at the woman's shoulder. "Ah, yes," the elf-thing said, words drawled strange and smooth. "I do like this one. There is fire in her… or poison, perhaps. Interesting, either way."

The Paragon's mouth twitched up into a faint smile, but Remya didn't relax even a whisker. There was an angle here, a catch, but she hadn't sussed it yet.

Then there was a hand reaching down, held out in clear offer, and Remya glared up at the woman with no attempt to hide her mistrust.

**Leofric**

He stood at perfect attention as Arl Eamon spoke to the Grey Wardens, pointedly ignoring any lingering sense that he was a fatted calf being sent to market. If his arl commanded him to infiltrate the Warden ranks, or indeed to storm the Deep Roads naked and empty handed, Leofric was bound to oblige him.

He would do his duty to the best of his abilities, as always. When the arlessa had sent him and the other knights off chasing legends, he'd gone without question. When Ser Perth had commanded he stand vigilant at the windmill while ghastly horrors clad in the flesh of friends and neighbours poured from the castle, intent on slaughtering every living soul in Redcliffe, he had done so.

When this dwarven Warden had ordered him to _stay alive_, as his vision grew blurry and his blood pooled dark around him, gushing from the hideous mess that had once been his shoulder, he had managed even that. Even after seeing _her_ face, sunken and rotted, and realising that he had indeed lost _everything_.

Leofric was not a man to shirk his duty.

"Learn what you can," the arl had told him, some weeks before. "I will have messengers stationed about Amaranthine, waiting for your reports. I cannot stress enough, Ser Leofric, just how vital this task may be for the good of Ferelden."

He hadn't asked for clarification; none was needed. The web of deceit and suspicion that ran rampant amongst the nobility had never been a realm he trod willingly, but that did not mean he was ignorant of its existence. It might be distasteful— particularly so, in this case— but he would complete his task.

And if, as was terribly likely, the Grey Wardens discovered his spying and drummed him back to Redcliffe in chains, or had him flayed and hanged from the ramparts… Well, those were concerns for another day. He did not fear death, not since facing it so literally and so _physically_, and he would overcome his reticence. If Arl Eamon required his self-respect, the man would have it, just as faithfully as he had his sword arm.

His fate, he left in the hands of the Maker.

**Carran**

"I recognise you." Ignoring the voice as politely as possible, Carran kept chopping, losing himself in the swing of the axe and the monotony of splitting logs. He wasn't anyone important enough to recognise, and with the entire farm to run on his own, he hardly had the time— "Carran, wasn't it?"

That was unexpected, and his next swing hit off-centre, peeling off a bit of kindling rather than making two good sticks. Biting back a curse, Carran turned to find he had quite a surprising audience.

"Warden—" He knew this woman, she'd bloody well saved his hide all those months before, and now she was outside his home, standing under his crab apple tree. "What— I, er, hello?"

She smiled at him, crossing her arms, and the expression was equal parts kind and amused. Back some distance farther, waiting on the road, stood two human men and an elf, all of whom seemed vaguely familiar, plus a pair of dwarves he'd never seen before. "Hello, yourself. How've you been, lad?"

Assurances of his well-being rushed to the tip of his tongue, but it was there they stalled. How could he be anything but fine and hale and _grateful_, when he'd managed to survive? What right did he have to complain about anything when over half the village had fallen to demons or darkspawn, and he was still standing, still chopping damned wood? He wasn't a child, too weak to overcome foolish nightmares of putrid, shambling bodies and tainted 'spawn… he had no reason to feel such guilt, sitting sour and cold in his gut. It was the Maker's will, even if he didn't understand it.

The Grey Warden, the Hero of Ferelden, wasn't smiling anymore. Bollocks, he'd been quiet too long, or his hesitation had shown on his face, or _something_—

"I'm fine, ma'am," he finally managed, ashamed by the gravel in his voice. "Uh, ser. Thank you for asking. And yourself?"

There was a long, silent moment, tense enough that Carran felt his ire flare— _no_. No, he wasn't some hot-headed brute, and more than anyone, this Warden deserved his utmost respect. He was a good man, like his father had been, and he was going to do everything he could to be worthy of this second chance even if it killed him.

The Warden's gaze wandered back somewhere behind him— to the three white remembrance stones set at the side of the house, no doubt— and Carran tried desperately to keep his spine from stiffening. He was _fine_.

Finally, blessedly, the stoic woman spoke. "I'm actually out recruiting," she said, catching his eye again. There was something… calculating about her, something shrewd. It made him a bit wary. "And if I recall correctly, you're rather skilled with a blade. The Wardens could use a man like you."

It was a splash of ice water, sending his heart hammering. "Me? A Grey Warden? Just… just like that?"

The Warden shrugged slightly. "Well, it's not quite so simple, but yes. The offer stands."

To be away from this place, all the memories that clung to it… that alone might be worth it. The thought nearly made him dizzy.

He'd promised the Maker he'd be a better man, swore on his family's pyres that he'd make them proud of him. He'd assumed that meant smartening up and tending the farm like the good son he should have been, before the Blight, but maybe it could be something else.

He glanced around the farm, at the garden he'd have to harvest soon enough and the barn empty of livestock. It felt like a tomb. "I… all right. I'm honoured, ser."

* * *

_AN: I'm not sure if you've noticed, but there are a fair number of original characters in this story. I know, I know; news of the hour, right? _

_In an attempt to get my bearing after my hiatus, I started writing some of what you see above, determined to hear their voices again. It sort of... took off. So, hey, recruitment tales. Hope you like! _


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